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UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



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9 


DON MIGUEL 


AND OTHER STORIES 



EDWARD S. VAN ZILE 

W 


AUTHOR OF “wanted A SENSATION,” “A MAGNETIC MAlf,” 

“the last of the van slacks,” etc. 




NEW YORK 

CASSELL PUBLISHLSTG COMPANY 

104 & 106 Fourth Avenub; 


Copyright, 1891, by' 

• . CASSELL PUBLISHING COMPANY. 


All rights reserved. 


THE MEUSHON COMPANY PREBB, 
JI.VHWAY, N, J, 


J 


TO 

AYALTER P. PHILLIPS 

THIS BOOK 

Is CoiiDiALLY Dedicated 


By the Author. 



CONTENTS. 


I. 

Don Miguel, 

PAGE 

1 

11. 

Insomnia Mundi, .... 

39 

TIT. 

The Czau’s Liver, .... 

. 49 

IV. 

A Country Doctor 

53 

V. 

A Scared Briton, .... 

. fiO 

VI. 

A Tale froai Cairo, .... 

75 

VII. 

Durston's Burglar, 

. 87 

VIII. 

An Iconoclastic Voice, . 

97 

IX. 

Three Strange Suicides, 

. 102 

'V'' 

uV. 

A ]\IrSUNDERSTOOD WoMAN, 

112 

XI. 

A Haunted Man, .... 

. 115 

XIT. 

An Insignificant Man, 

12G 

XIII. 

A IModern Narcissus, . 

. 130 

XIV. 

Two Browns, 

133 

XV. 

The Drummer, .... 

. 138 

XVI. 

Con HAD IIiMMEi/s Fall, . 

145 

XVII. 

A PiioNOGRAniic Tragedy, . 

. 157 

XVIII. 

A Snubred Husband, 

101 

XIX. 

A Lucky PAiiAGRAriiER, 

. 104 

XX. 

Seeking an Idea, .... 

107 


iii 


IV . 


CONTENTS., 


XXI. 

The Cost of New Yotik Life, 

PAGE 

. 177 

XXIL 

Edna Dorr, 

183 

XXIII. 

The Pirate of New Rochelle, 

. 186 

XXIV. 

A Mad Novelist, .... 

200 

XXV. 

A Wife’s Fate, 

. 205 

XXVI. 

An Anarchist by Fate, 

212 

XXVII. 

A Pugilistic Encounter, . 

. 219 

XXVIII. 

A Wonderful Discovery, 

225 

XXIX. 

Out of the Mouth of Babes, 

. 229 

XXX. 

A Strange Confessor, . 

247 

XXXI. 

A Weird Encounter, 

. 261 

XXXII. 

Redeemed by Love, 

209 

XXXIII. 

A Defeated Ambition, 

. 272 


DON MIGUEL. 


A ST GET OF TO-DAY. 


PAET I. 

OU must acknowledge, Daisy, that he 



is handsome. He is such a relief from 
the commonplace American who dresses like 
an Englishman and talks like last week’s 
fimiiy paper. There is something quite ro- 
mantic about Don Miguel. I think even your 
father was impressed with him.” 

Mrs. Alonzo B. Kichards, well known to 
the society reporters of the metropolitan 
newspapers, leaned back in her chair and 
gazed triumphantly at her younger daughter, 
who was seated near her at the piano. Mrs. 
Kichards always considered it a great victory 
to awaken any sign of emotion in her hus- 
band, and she had been pleased at dinner to 


2 


DON MIGUEL. 


see that he had shown considerable curiosity 
regarding her guest, Don Miguel Mendoza of 
Spain. Daisy, a handsome girl, with light 
hair and dark blue eyes, smiled sarcastically 
at her mother’s words. 

“Yes, he has some claims to beauty, of 
the dark, mysterious kind. I don’t think I 
admire the style, but I have no doubt that 
he pleased Violet.” 

She turned toward her sister, a tall, 
queenly woman, who had been walking about 
the drawing-room nervously. Violet Dich- 
ards was a reigning belle. She resembled 
her mother in feature and her father in hei* 
cold and unimpassioned ways. But in her 
dark eyes there w^as a suppressed enthusiasm 
which proved that if this black-haired woman 
ever lost control of herself the effect would 
be volcanic in its aspects. 

“ Yes, Daisy,” she said quietly, seating her- 
self on a divan, “ I always like a man who 
seems to possess reserved power.” 

“ Yes, indeed, doesn’t he, though ? ” broke 
in a small, thin-faced, carefully dressed wo- 


DON MIGVEL. 


3 


man, of more years than she cared to own, 
who had been imwontedly silent since they 
had left the dining-room to the smokers. 
“He seems to embody all the picturesque 
traditions of his native land. He reminds 
me of castles imbedded in roses, of Moors 
roaming about and fighting with Ferdinand 
and Isabella, of fountains in the Alhambra, 
of the music of guitars, and — and — of ” 

“Garlic and bull-fights. Miss Martin,” sug- 
gested Daisy mischievously. 

“ I am ashamed of you, Daisy,” broke in 
Violet. “If nothing else can restrain you, 
you should remember that Don Miguel is 
our guest.” 

“ How can I forget that, Vi ? I have heard 
nothing but ^Don Miguel’ for two days. 
Ever since mamma met him at the Kobin- 
sons, you and she have talked of no one else. 
I am beginning to look at everything from a 
Spanish standpoint. I really believe that you 
tliink Adam was a Spaniard, and wooed Eve 
with A^eserved power.’ I’ll begin to walk 
Spanish, pretty soon.” 


4 


DON MIG DEL. 


am sliocked, Daisy,” exclaimed Mrs. 
Kicliards. Where do you pick up so much 
slang ? ” 

^ It comes direct from Wall Street, mamma,” 
answered Violet maliciously. 

^^At all events, it’s American,” retorted 
Daisy. am a patriotic daughter of the 
New World, mamma. The reason I admire 
Columbus is because he left Spain and came 
to this country.” 

But he went back again,” suggested her 
sister. 

Yes, and when he got back he died.” 

“ Hush, girls,” exclaimed Miss Martin im- 
pressively. I think I hear them stirring in 
the dining-room.” 

No,” returned Daisy, striking a few bars 
on the piano. it’s Don Miguel’s cigar. It’s 
such a very strong one, you know. By the 
way, mamma, do all Spanish grandees wear 
gloves at meals ? I was waiting for the Don 
to remove his, but he kept them on all through 
dinner. I really must say I don’t like the cus- 
tom. It may be Spanish, but it isn’t pretty.” 


DON MIGUEL. 


5 


Perhaps,” remarked Miss Martin, he has 
made a romantic vow of some kind. Yon 
know they’re always doing that kind of thing 
over there.” 

‘‘ Daisy loves this land of freedom so well,” 
suggested Violet, ^Hhat she might ask the 
Don why he never removes his gloves. If he 
looks annoyed she could recite the Declara- 
tion of Independence to him.” 

At this moment four gentlemen entered 
the room. Don Miguel Mendoza, who had 
been the subject of so much gossip, was the 
most striking figure of the quartette, tie 
was somewhat above medium height and 
strongly built. There was more power than 
grace in his frame. His face was brilliantly 
handsome. Dark hair and eyes, an olive 
complexion, with a faint tinge of red in the 
cheeks, a voluptuous mouth, and white, even 
teeth formed a striking combination. The 
lines of the nose were not as delicate as an art- 
ist might have wished, nor were his ears well 
cut. But the general effect of his appear- 
ance was dazzling. There were youth, health, 


e 


DON MIGUEL. 


vigor, and passion in liis face, and when he 
smiled there was an irresistible fascination 
about him. He was faultlessly attired, the 
only peculiar feature of his evening costume 
being the white gloves which had awakened 
Daisy’s scorn. 

The other members of the group were Mr. 
Alonzo B. Richards, a gray-haired, square- 
faced man, with cold, stern eyes; General 
Stagg, of the United States army, a red- 
cheeked veteran who looked healthy and 
Iiappy and rather picturesque in his dazzling 
uniform; and Mr. Ernest Forbes, a Wall Street 
broker, with gray hair and a youthful coun- 
tenance. 

^ Don Miguel promised to sing for us,” 
exclaimed Daisy, springing up from the piano 
stool, and thinking that now, at least, the 
Spaniard would have to remove his gloves. 

^ It would give me great pleasure. Miss 
Daisy,” said Don Miguel rather solemnly, as 
he approached her. .Tlien turning to Violet, 
lie asked : ^ You will play my accompani- 
ment, Miss Richards ? ” 


DON MIGUEL. 


1 


Checkmated,” wliisjDered Daisy mourn- 
fully to Mr. Forbes, as Violet seated herself 
at the iustrumeut. “ Is there no way to make 
him take oft* those gloves ? ” 

You might drug him and do it by force,” 
suggested the broker. 

Don Miguel’s voice was a baritone of great 
compass. He sang with the ease and preci- 
sion of one who has had instruction from the 
best teachers. There was a vibrant melan- 
choly in his tones which was due in part to 
the motif of his song and in part to a myste- 
rious element in his nature which seemed to 
find relief in music. As he stood beside 
Violet, those who saw them were struck by 
the beauty of the picture. Their dark, mobile 
faces bore the same expression of mingled 
pleasure and pain. As the soft, velvety Span- 
ish rolled from his lips, sometimes pleading, 
sometimes sorrowful, Violet’s countenance 
reflected every meaning of his tone. Their 
spirits seemed to join in the harmony of 
poetry and song. 

There was a murmur of applause as the 


8 


DON MIGUEL. 


Don’s song came to an end. Even Daisy 
smiled in honest approval, while Miss Martin 
looked ecstatically toward General Stagg, as 
if to inform him that she was still young 
enough to vibrate with emotion. 

Mr. Forbes and I are going to play bil- 
liards,” remarked Daisy. “Would anybody 
like to join us ? ” 

“ How crudely she sometimes speaks,” mur- 
mured Mrs. Richards to herself. 

“ If Miss Martin will become my ally,” re- 
marked the general, “ I should be glad to 
shoulder a cue.” 

“ I have promised to show Don Miguel the 
conservatory,” said Violet, rising and moving 
away on his arm. 

A moment later Mr. Richards and his wife 
were left alone. 

“ How do you like the Spaniard, Alonzo ? ” 
asked Mrs. Richards anxiously, as her hus- 
band drew a chair toward her. 

“ O, very well, for a novelty.” 

“ You are so reserved, Alonzo ! But don’t 
you think him very elegant in appearance ? ” 


DON MIGUEL. 


9 


Mr. Eichards smiled coldly. ^^What a 
thorougli wQ^nan’s question. Tlie most ele- 
gant man in looks I ever knew cheated me 
out of twenty thousand dollars.” Mrs. Eich- 
ards, to use a colloquialism, was stumped.” 

“ Did he — did he — look like Don Miguel ? ” 
- she faltered. 

“ Not at all, my dear ; not at all. He was 
very different in style. But I have learned, 
Mrs. Eichards, to beware of what are called 
handsome men. It is not a man’s face which 
counts for much in these days, but his figure 
— his figure at his banker’s, I mean.” 

How materialistic you are, Alonzo. But 
don’t you think it would be well to ask the 
Don up to ^ Mountain view ’ for a few days ? 
General Stagg, Miss Martin, and Mr. Forbes 
are coming. Violet ought to have a vis-a-vis^ 
especially as she always complains of the dull- 
ness of the country.” 

I don’t agree with you, my dear,” re- 
turned her husband, with more earnestness 
than he had yet sho^vn. We know very lit- 
tle about this Spaniard. He seems to be a 


10 


DON MIGUEL. 


gentleman, but I don’t want Violet to many 
a foreigner. So give up your castle in Spain, 
Mrs. Kicbards, and let tlie matter drop.” 

At that moment Violet and the Don en- 
tered the drawing-room from the conserva- 
tory. The young woman’s cheeks glowed, 
and the light in her eyes convinced her father 
that his decision had been right. He had 
never seen so much animation in his daugh- 
ter’s face before. 

I feel as though I liad been to Spain for 
a moment,” remarked the Don to Mrs. Dich- 
ards. “ Your flowers have brought my na- 
tive land near to me, and, 1 assure you, the 
presence of Miss Richards did not destroy the 
illusion.” 

Violet smiled, and stole a glance at her 
image in a mirror. 

“You return to Spain soon?” asked Mr. 
Richai’ds, looking at the Don rather sternly. 

“ No, no. I shall remain in New York for 
a long time.” 

Don Miguel seated himself on a chair close 
to Mr. Richards, “ I like your city and your 


DON MIGUEL. 


11 


people. Having no near relatives at home I 
am restless and prefer new friends to old ac- 
quaintances.” 

So did the man who swindled me,” 
thought Mr. Richards, looking toward his 
Avife, who Avas talking to Violet at the other 
end of the apartment. 

Then, again,” continued the Don, I am 
becoming interested in American securities. 
I haA^e a large amount of money to inA^est and 
I am trying to place it here to advantage.” 

Mr. Richards’s face changed. There was 
more life in his eyes, a tinge of red in his 
cheeks, and he looked at the Spaniard with a 
return of cordiality. 

Ah ! Is it so ? If I can be of any ser- 
vice to you, sir, it would give me great 
pleasure.” 

“ I thank you from my heart, Mr. Richards. 
I am convinced that you could aid me 
greatly.” 

We go to our country house up the Hud- 
son to-morrow,” remarked the ho^, weighing 
his words carefully. “ We will remain there 


12 


DON MIOUEL. 


all summer. If you are at leisure next 
week, it would give us great satisfaction to 
number you among our guests. The scenery 
and air are fine, but tliere is little to do, you 
know. Can you spare us a few days ? ” 

•^You are very kind, sir. Nothing would 
give me so muck delight.” 

The Don said these words impressively, 
and unconsciously his eyes turned to Violet, 
who was coming forward by her mother’s 
side. 

^^Don Miguel,” remarked Mr. Eichards, 
rising, “ has kindly promised to visit us next 
week at ^ Mountainview.’ I tell him he will 
find the place very quiet, but he does not 
seem to mind that.” 

Mrs. Eichards, a thorough woman of the 
world, had looked surprised for a moment, 
but controlled her face and said : 

I am delighted, Don Miguel, and trust 
you A\^on’t be too much bored.” 

Indeed, madam, I look forward to a most 
joyful experience.” He glanced at Violet, as 
though expecting her to indorse her parent’s 


DON MIGUEL. 


13 


invitation. He was disappointed, however, 
for slie remained silent, tliougli a faint flush 
had mounted to her cheeks. 

The sound of laughter echoed from the 
hall, and the billiard players entered the 
room. 

^^We have met the enemy and we are 
theirs,” remarked General Stagg, glancing 
mournfully at Miss Martin, who was lean- 
ing on his arm. 

Miss Daisy was the hero — or rather her- 
oine — of the encounter,” added Mr. Forbes. 

She made a great run — of two points.” 

Sarcastic wretch ! ” returned Daisy. I 
will never play with you again.” 

Ha,” cried the general, discontent in the 
enemy’s camp ! We will have our revenge 
yet, Miss Martin.” 

Meanwhile Don Miguel had been making 
his adieux. 

^^We will see you Monday, then ? ” were 
Mr. Richards’s parting words to his guest. 

Thank you — yes. I bid you all good- 
night.” With a SAveeping bow.which seemed 


14 


DON MIQUEL. 


to salute tlie entire iiarty, but, at tlie same 
time, distinguisb A^iolet above tlie rest, tlie 
Don left tlie room. 

“ Did you catcli a glimpse of tlie Spaniard ? ” 
asked Daisy of a bandsome, dark-haired wo- 
man, with the features of a quadroon, an hour 
later. Eliza, the housekeeper, made a pet 
of Daisy, and always arranged her hair for 
her at night. 

~ Yes. He is a handsome man, is he not. 
Miss Daisy ? And so he is coming to ^ Moun- 
tainview ’ ? ” 

Yes, I suppose so. I don’t know what 
mamma and papa mean by asking him. He 
is such a stranger, don’t you know. But, 
Eliza, I want you to promise me something. 
Mr. Forbes and I have got a strange theory 
about his gloves. AVe think he wears them 
always because — because — w^ell, never mind. 
But while he is with us I want you to look 
at his hands. You are full of expedients and 
will have a better chance to discover his 
secret than any one else. AVill you try ? ” 

Certainly, Miss Daisy. You know I 


DON MIGVEL. 


15 


would do any tiling to please you. But I am 
sure I don’t know how I can accomplish 
your scheme. He looks like a man whose 
anger, if aroused, would be terrible.” 

Oh, but you mustn’t give him a chance to 
lose his temper. He must never know that 
anybody has seen his hands. Don’t you un- 
derstand ? ” 

I think I do. At all events. I’ll do the 
best I can. Good-night.” 

“ Good-night, Eliza.” 


PAET li. 

The Hudson flowed by the wooded hills 
and swept onward in grand curves toward 
the distant sea. The legendary mountains 
where Hendrik Hudson and his specter men 
rolled tenpins in the storm and drugged old 
Kip Van Winkle, where Katrina Van Tassel 
lived and died, and the school-master of 
Sleepy-Hollow took his weird midnight ride, 
towered heavenward opposite the New York 


16 


DON MIOUEL. 


millionaire’s country seat. It was early sum- 
mer and tlie green tints of tlie landscape told 
tliat tlie spring liad been warm and wet. 
“ Mountain view ” was a cliarming place. The 
house, though modern, was not oppressively 
new. Alonzo B. Bichards had built tlie place 
about ten years ago, shortly after he had 
“ cornered ” a certain railroad stock. Its solid 
and dignified appearance, therefore, was not 
due to age, but to a studied effort on the part 
of its owner to give the place an air of aiisto- 
cratic maturity. 

The trees on the lawn were ancient and im- 
pressive, the flower beds had long abandoned 
the gaudy frivolities of youth ; and about the 
entire establishment there was a restful look, 
in kee]:)ing with its character as a summer 
retreat. 

The sun was setting in golden grandeur 
behind the Catskills one evening about ten 
days after the events recorded in the last 
chapter. Upon the bi*oad piazza of “ Moun- 
taiuview ” were gathered the Bichards family 
and their guests. The glories of the scene 


DON MIGUEL. 


17 


before tliem bad impressed tliem all, and even 
Daisy liad been silent for a while. 

We have the background for romance in 
onr country, Don Miguel,” remarked Miss 
Martin ; but, being a commonplace people, 
the setting lacks its jewel.” 

Excuse me. Miss Martin, but I differ with 
you,” said General Stag^, rather sternly. 

We are not a commonplace people, and in 
no land in the world are the elements of 
romance so plentiful-” 

Don Miguel, who was seated near Violet^ 
rolled a cigarette and looked at the old sol- 
dier inrpiiringly. 

In the first place,” continued the general, 
“ the varied types which pertain to our mixed 
population offer striking contrasts. In New 
York I have sometimes heard six or eight dif- 
ferent languages spoken during a morning 
walk. Our streets are full of picturesque 
figures. What tlie metropolis needs is a 
novelist wlio will possess something of 
Dickens, a pinch of Thackeray,^ and a good 
deal of Balzac. Tlie raw material is all there. 


18 


DON MIGTTEL. 


What is wanted is a genius to make use of 
it.” 

But does not tlie absence of a recognized 
system of caste operate as a check to tlie 
American writer of fiction ? ” asked Don Mig- 
uel. ^Mn my country, and all througli Eu- 
rope the distinction between hoi polloi and 
hoi electoi is of vast benefit to the stoiy- 
teller.” 

‘^That is doubtless so,” commented Mr. 
Rickards, wko had grown more genial under 
the influence of mountain air and freedom 
from the cares of business. But, as the 
general says, there are countless elements of 
romance around us and a few of them are 
peculiar to our New World civilization. That 
strange and awful tragedy, our civil war, 
brought about results which will become a 
fruitful orchard to the poet and playwright 
of the future. Already its possibilities have 
been observed by clever men.” 

Mrs. Richards, surprised and pleased at 
her husband’s loquacity, broke in : Have you 
ever noticed our housekeeper, Don Miguel? 


DON MIGUEL. 


19 


She is a dark, handsome woman, mother of 
onr l)ntler?” 

Yes. I have seen her once or twice. She 
is much lighter in complexion than her son.” 
Don Miguel puffed his cigarette nervously. 

Her history illustrates Mr. E-ichards’s re- 
marks,” continued the hostess. ‘‘She was 
born a slave. After the war broke out she 
escaped North, bringing with her two sons, 
one much darker than herself, the other a 
good deal lighter. After a time a wealthy 
New Yorker, struck with the beauty and 
brightness of the latter, adopted him. The 
boy was then eight years old. Eliza has 
never seen him since. She and her other son 
entered our service several years ago. Some- 
times, I think, she wonders what became of 
her boy, and then she comforts herself with 
the thought that her sacrifice was made for 
his benefit. Think of the contrast there 
would be between the two boys now — one a 
negro butler, ignorant, faithful, unaspiring, 
and the other reared in luxury, cultured in 
the schools and by travel, ambitious, perhaps, 


^0 


DON MIGUEL. 


and worthy, excepting for his birtli, of recog* 
nition from the best people of the land. AVhat 
other country could produce so strange a 
tale?” 

Tliere was silence for a moment. Then 
Daisy, smiling at Mr. Forbes, who was smoking 
a cigar by her side, remarked : ^^That is very 
pretty, mamma. But probably the adopted 
boy is dead. Eliza has told me he was very 
delicate.” 

Don Miguel arose, somewhat hurriedly, 
and said : 

“ Miss. Richards, would you like *to take 
a stroll — or is the night wind too 
cold?” 

r “ I sliould be delighted,” answered Violet, 
who had taken no part in the conversation. 
‘‘‘ I will get a wrap.” 

She’ll get a rap if she doesn’t stop flirting 
with that Spaniard,” Avhispered Daisy to Mr. 
Forbes. 

A moment later Violet and Don Miguel 
were wandering beneath the melancholy trees. 
There was a fresh, bracing odor of pine in the 


DON MIOXIEL. 


21 


air, and above tlie mountain-tops tlie stars 
had liegun to blink. 

You are very silent to-night,” remarked 
Don Miguel, drawing her arm a little closer 
to his side. 

I always am in a crowd. I like a duet, 
but cannot sing in a chorus.” She spoke 
mockingly, and her smile was cold and dis- 
tant as she glanced at the Spaniard a moment 
and then turned her eyes toward the far-of 
mountains. 

Her dark hair made her complexion seem 
strangely* pale in the half-light of the waning 
day. Her eyes shone like the stars above the 
distant pines, and her warm, full lips .tempted 
the evening breeze. The faint fragrance of 
her person intoxicated her vis-a-vis, and he 
seemed to tremble slightly as though with 
cold. 

You find our climate harsh ? ” she asked, 
noting this, and looking at him again, sonie- 
^vhat more cordially. 

Oh, no. There is something in this glori- 
ous air that makes one in love with life. The 


/ 


22 


DON MIGVEL. 


breeze from tliose moimtain-tops seeiiis to 
wliisper to me of liigli aml)itions, of great 
deeds done, of a life devoted to a lofty pur- 
pose, and crowned with success. I would I 
were a poet, a painter, a musician, for to-night. 
I seem to need an outlet for the passionate 
joy in all created things that has come to 
me since I first breathed the elixir from those 
hills.” 

Perhaps a cigarette might give you some 
temporary relief,” she remarked, removing 
her arm from his and seating herself in a 
secluded summer-house, from which a view 
of the river could be obtained. He looked 
rather dazed for a moment, as though the 
waters of the Hudson had splashed over 
him, but with the savoir-faire of a mondain 
he seated himself near her, deftly rolled a 
cigarette, and gazed gloomily out upon the 
night. 

They made a striking picture in the gloam- 
ing. She was dressed in a simple garment of 
white mull, with a bancdi of carnation roses 
at her waist. There was a voluptuous at- 


DON MIGUEL, 


23 


mospliere about lier, wliicli was intensified by 
the loneliness and silence of the place. Iso- 
lation adds vastly to the charms of a hand- 
some woman. 

Don Miguel, half-reclining on a divan of 
wicker-work, seemed especially designed by 
nature for the part he there played. He was 
one of those men who make love gracefully. 
His dark, peculiar face was of that type that 
suggests passion while attempting to conceal 
it. Perhaps that is why he watched the 
shadowy river, rather than the woman by his 
side. Her manner had not encouraged him to 
further confidence. He was too proud to 
look at her, for he knew his heart was in his 
eyes, but the night seemed to be throbbing 
with her presence and the veiy stars shone 
brighter as they gazed. , 

^^You accused me of being silent,” re- 
marked Violet at length. You know our 
proverb about those who live in glass 
houses ? ” 

I am waiting to adjust myself to your 
mood,” he answered. I perched on the 


24 


DON MIGUEL. 


m mntain-tops, but you woxJd not follow 
me.” 

“ And you are trying to get down to my 
level. That is really very kind.” Slie 
smiled sarcastically. 

You misunderstand me.” His face showed 
that he was pained. “ There is a touch of 
cruelty in your nature.” 

Of course there is. I am a woman.” 

“ And, therefore,” he said, throwing away 
his half-smoked cigarette and rolling another, 
“ and, therefore, a coquette.” 

She laughed outright, rather nervously, 
perhaps. 

That is a sweeping generality. Do you 
call Miss Martin a coquette ? ” 

“Why not? But General Stagg is a bet- 
ter witness than I am in Miss Martin’s 
case.” 

“ And Avhat is a coquette, Don Miguel, may 
I ask?” 

He stood up, and leaned against the door- 
way. His figure to her eyes formed a sil- 
houette against the western sky. He could 


DON MIQTJEL. 


25 


see lier face, but bis was shadowy and unreal 
from where she sat. 

A coquette ? A coquette is a woman who 
gains a man’s love, and plays with it. A 
woman who has no pity for the hearts she 
breaks. She may not realize the anguish she 
begets; she may not know that love to a 
strong man is a passion cruel in its force ; she 
may, I say, be unmindful of all this, and yet 
her fault is great. A coquette — is a woman 
who admires a thousand men, but loves her- 
self.” 

There was silence for a time. Then, with 
the echo of a sob in her voice, Violet faltered : 

And you call me a coquette ? ” 

A thrill of triumph coursed through Don 
Miguel’s veins. Had she answered him in 
anger, in derision, or with a flippant epigram 
lie would have known that his case was hope- 
less. He threw himself upon the seat beside 
her, clasped her in his arms, and cried : 

^^You love me, Violet! Thank God, you 
love me 1 ” 

Oh, the ecstasy of that moment ! The 


26 


DON MIGUEL. 


woman, surprised at her own passion, knew 
that slie loved this man with all tlie ardor of 
her soul. Her lips met his in a long, long 
kiss, the kiss of youth and love,” her arms 
twined about his neck, and her eyes looked 
into his with a glance of mingled happiness 
and pain. For to the heart of a proud woman 
submission to the man of her choice is never 
free from sorrow. 


PAET III. 

Doi^ Miouel Mendoza occujDied a room 
overlooking the Hudson. It was after mid- 
night, and he stood at an open window gazing 
dreamily out upon the fairy-like scene before 
him. The fresh, aromatic breeze from the 
mountains fanned his cheeks. The stars 
winked at him playfully, and nature seemed 
inclined to sympathize with his joy as an 
accepted suitor. 

But the young man was not grateful. His 
attitude was one of dejection, and now and 
then a sigh tliat was almost a groan escaped 


DON MIGVEL. 


27 


him. What did this mean ? H^e was a 
handsome youth, wealthy, cultivated, widely 
traveled, in perfect health, and just now made 
rich by the acknowledged love of the most 
fascinating woman he had ever known. His 
pulse still throbbed with the fervor of her 
parting kiss, and his being thrilled with the in- 
cense from her dark, rich hair. Still did he not 
throw his arms toward heaven and thank the 
Fates for spinning him so fair a web. Far 
from it. In the dim light he looked like a 
man whose heart was heavy with its weight 
of woe, who saw not the gleaming stars, but 
only the shadows where the dark waters 
flowed. 

Two voices sounded in his ears ; the one 
he had heard that niglit in its cold monotony, 
telling her housekeeper’s tale ; the other that 
of his benefactor, wild in the delirium of 
fever — and the two voices told the same 
story. He, Don Miguel Mendoza, falsely 
so-called, was Eliza’s son. His brother was a 
black man and a butler. 

Must I suffer for a nation’s crime?” he 


28 


DON MIOUEL. 


muttered. “ Must tlie curse that should rest 
on those who made my ancestors slaves be 
forced upon me ? Must I, a man whose mind 
holds all the learning of the schools, whose 
heart is as white as the new-fallen snow, 
who has mingled with the courtiers of the 
Old World and been called a prince, who has 
been the pet of fortune, who has wronged no 
one, who has loved the riglit, who is a gentle- 
man in all that the word implies — must I sac- 
rifice the liappiness of my life, abandon the 
woman who has given me her heart, because 
a slight taint of negro blood shows itself in 
my finger-nails ? Great God, how unjust is 
the world ! If the men I have met in the 
New York clubs had known my origin they 
would have shunned me as though I had 
committed crime. And yet they say Don 
Miguel is a polished cosmopolite. They pay 
their court to me. They acknowledge my 
worth as a man. ‘ Society,’ so-called, makes 
a lion of the slave girl’s son. Ha, ha ! they 
have been punished by me for the sin of my 
father — scion of a haughty race — wrought in 


DON MIGTIEL. 


29 


his hot youth. But Violet ! Shall my re- 
venge go further and wreck her fair, sweet 
life ? What thought is this ? hlo,- a thousand 
times no ! But I cannot give her up. I am 
rich. I am beloved. Is not that enough ? I 
must leave this place, for though my mother 
and her son know me not, their eyes seem to 
burn into my very soul. Well, so be it. 
Business shall call me to the city in the morn- 
ing, and then — and then — well, let tlie future 
decide. My purpose is firm. Violet shall 
be my wife, and the wealth the good man left 
me shall protect my secret for all time. And 
so, good-night, ye towering hills ! May the 
curse of a wronged man, child of a wronged 
race, rest upon the land that freed the slave 
and left him still a slave.” 

Meanwhile Daisy, still piqued by Don Mig- 
uel’s habit of wearing gloves at all times and 
places, had had a long talk with Eliza. The 
housekeeper was between Scylla and Cha- 
rybdis. She did not want to offend her fa- 
vorite mistress and still she hated to play the 


30 


DON MIGUEL. 


Please do as I wish, Eliza,” pleaded the 
young girl, beautiful en neglige. ‘‘Mr. Forbes 
and I have set our hearts uj)on solving 
the mystery. I know that you share my 
curiosity. If you didn’t you wouldn’t be a 
woman. All you have to do is to wait an 
hour or so until you are sure that he is asleep. 
Then slip into his room and glance at his 
hands. They say that your race can see as 
clearly in the dai’k as in the daylight. I am 
certain that you will read his secret, for no- 
body could wear gloves on such a warm night 
as this.” 

Daisy looked up at the hair-dresser with 
such a smiling, pleading expression .in her 
eyes that the good-natured Eliza had no 
longer the heart to refuse. 

“ Will you always be a child. Miss Daisy ? ” 
she asked, with the affectionate freedom of a 
favored servant. 

“Yes, Eliza, so long as you are with me. 
And that will be always, for when I’m mar- 
ried ” — and the picpiant little face turned red 
— you coming to live with us, Dick — 


DON MIGUEL. 


SI 


tliat IS Mr. Forbes — and I — decided that to- 
night. Are you glad ? ” 

Indeed I am, Miss Daisy,” answered Eliza 
emphatically. 

“ And we’ll take George with us, if we can 
afford to have a butler. Mr. Forbes says that 
^vill depend on the market. I don’t know 
why it should, as meat costs just as much one 
year as it does another; but Dick is very 
clever, and I suppose lie wasn’t talking non- 
sense.” 

So the pretty maiden prattled on, anxious 
to retain the housekeeper until the time for 
solvino* Don Misruel’s secret should arrive. 

o o 

' At length a clock in the lower part of the 
house struck two. 

Now go, Eliza,” whispered Daisy ex- 
citedly. “ Be awful quiet, and when you 
have looked at his hands come back and tell 
me what you saw.” 

With slow, noiseless step the quadroon left 
the room. Her face wore an expression of 
abstraction for her thoughts were far away. 
She had overheard the story of her early life 


32 


DON MIGXTEL. 


as Mrs. Richards had retailed it to her guests 
that night, and the slave girl’s mind had been 
pondering the possibility that her white son 
might be still alive. If he was, what had 
been his fate ? Was he a gentleman — rich, 
cultivated, honored ? Or had the taint of ser- 
vile blood in his veins dragged him down to 
her own level ? Strange questions for a 
mother, were they not ? 

The house was as silent as the grave. 
With something catlike in her movements she 
approached the front guest-chamber. Softly 
opening the door with her pass-key she heard 
the deep, regular breathing of Don Miguel. 
The dim light of the stars shone through the 
open windows upon the sleeper’s bed. Why 
did her heart beat so wildly ? Was it a 
mother’s instinct that caused the strange agi- 
tation that beset her ? 

Hurry, Eliza ! Only a glance and your 
task is done. See, his well-shaped hands lie 
ungloved upon tlie coverlid. Is he not hand- 
some? Look at his sti*ong, firm neck as it 
meets his chest. The lines are Avorthy a 


DON MIOUEL. 


33 


sculptor’s art. See, how clean-cut is his brow. 
But, hold ! Why do you start back in dis- 
may ? Why do your eyes gleam so wildly as 
you stare at that birthmark far down upon 
his neck ? Do you know its outlines ? Did 
your dusky arms once twine about a man who 
bore that same hereditary seal ? If so, the 
mystery of his gloves is solved. His finger- 
tips tell that his mother was a slave. 

Dazed, hardly conscious what had happened, 
Eliza stole from the room, and perfunctorily 
shut the door and locked it. The sleeper had 
not stirred since her entrance. 

Leaning against the door for a moment she 
tried to think. Then this courtly Spaniard, 
this honored guest of her employers was her 
own son ! What should she do? First of all 
she must go to Daisy and tell her — what ? 
Wliy, tell her, of course, that the Spaniard 
wore his gloves at night. Surely a mother 
must not betray a son ! 

She crept toward the young girl’s room, 
tremb]in<x Avith coufiictiug emotions. Slie 
had reached the darkest sliadow in the hall- 


u 


DON MIGXTEL 


way when Daisy’s door opened and a wlnte- 
robed figure passed out and disappeared. 

It must have been Miss Violet,” said Eliza 
to herself. 

She found Daisy erect in bed, her eyes 
ablaze with excitement. 

“ What did you discover ? ” she asked 
‘eagerly. 

“ Nothing,” returned Eliza in a hoarse 
voice. “ He still had on his gloves.” 

Did he ? ” asked Daisy, as though the 
subject had lost its interest in comparison 
with a matter of greater moment. ‘^Well, 
come here, Eliza. I’ve got a great secret for 
you, though you have none for me. Vi ^vas 
just in here and — what do you think ? You’ll 
never guess. She is engaged to Don Miguel. 
He proposed to-night and she accepted him. 
Isn’t it the greatest lark you ever heard of ? ” 

The quadroon sank down upon a chair, 
physically overcome by the crisis thrust upon 
her. She did not heed the chatter of the ex- 
cited girl before her. Her mind could enter- 
tain but one thought. She must prevent this 


DON MIGJJED 


35 


union. Wlien she had discovered that lier 
son was a guest of the house she had seen no 
reason to expose him. Her employers enter- 
tained many fleeting friends and doubtless 
Don Miguel’s stay would be short. But to 
find him the accepted lover of Miss Bichards 
placed another and more tragic phase upon 
the matter. Remember that for years this 
woman had been the recipient of kindness 
and consideration from the family. She had 
learned to love them, and her early habits as 
a slave had made her intensely loyal to those 
under whom she served. Then again, she 
had no especial affection for this new-found 
son. Even in the old days she had not held 
him near her heart, for his father had treated 
her with cruelty. The sight of that queer- 
shaped birthmark had reawakened her hatred 
for a man whose bones lay crumbling beneath 
a Southern battle-ground. At length she 
came to a decision : 

Please excuse me now. Miss Daisy,” she 
said as she arose. “ It is almost daylight and 
I am very tired.” 


86 


DON MTGVEL. 


Forgive me, Eliza; I have been selfish. 
Go to your room at once. But, Just one min- 
ute! Would yon marry a man who always 
wore gloves? I’m sure I w^ouldn’t. Good- 
night. What a queer world this is ! ” 

It is, indeed,” muttered the quadroon, as 
she made her way down the hall toward Don 
Miguel’s door. She no longer trembled. Slie 
walked noiselessly, but her step was firm and 
in her face were pictured the gray tints of an 
unshakable resolve. 

As she entered the room the faint light of 
early dawn showed her that her son had 
stirred. One arm Avas above his head and his 
face Avas turned toAvard her. She remembered 
that this Avas his faA'orite posture as a child, 
and for a moment a Avave of tenderness SAvept 
over her, leaving, as it receded, a salty mois- 
ture about her eyes. The slight noise she 
made as she approached, liim caused him to 
move again, and as he turned she saAV once 
more the birthmark bequeathed to the sleepei' 
by the man avIio had wronged hei*. 

AAvake, my son,” she exclaimed, touching 


DON MIGUEL. 


37 


him upon tlie shoulder. He started up in 
dismay. 

Behold — your mother ! ” 

A groan of despair echoed through the 
room. 

“ You are — I know it,” he returned, off his 
guard from the suddenness of the attack amid 
the fog of retreating sleep. 

What do you mean ? ” he asked, as his 
mind cleared. 

You know well that what I say is true,” 
she answered. “ Now, my time here is short, 
for the servants will soon be astir. You must 
leave this house at once. You are my son, 
but I love the woman you would wrong, and, 
by the hatred that I bear your father’s mem- 
ory, I swear that unless you renounce all 
claims to her hand and go hence instantly I 
shall arouse the house and denounce you.” 

There w'as a savage gleam in the woman’s 
eyes that told her son there was no appeal for 
him. He gazed at her wildly for an instant. 
His hands twitched nervously. Tlie awful 
injustice of fate drove him mad. It was bad 


38 


DON MIG DEL. 


enoiigli to suffer for liis hirtli, but to have liis 
doom pronounced by liis motlier was frightful. 
Cowering down into the pillows, he buried 
his face in his arms and murmured in a stifled 
voice : 

“ Go ! I will do as you wish.” 

The door closed softly. A woman who 
shook from the reaction of her passions stood 
listening in a hallway through ^vhich the 
light of returning day was driving back the 
shadows. 

A pistol shot rang out and awoke the sleep- 
ing household. A bullet had done its fatal 
work. It had killed a gentleman, the son of 
a slave — and had broken a woman’s heart. 


INSOMNIA MIJNDI 


MIDDLE-AGED, well-preserved man 



came down the stoop of liis Fifth Ave- 
nue house one morning in early fall. As he 
reached the sidewalk he met a neighbor, a 
man about his own age. 

“ How are you to-day? ” he asked. 

^^Eather tired. For some inexplicable 
reason I could not sleep last night. I was 
astonished. I am seldom troubled in that 
way.” 

Strange ! I had the same difficulty. I 
found I could not sleep, so I went to my 
library. The night was cool enough. I can- 
not explain my restlessness.” 

They had been sauntering down the avenue. 
At Forty-second Street, as they turned to- 
ward the elevated road, they were joined by 
a mutual friend. 


39 


40 


INSOMNIA MUNDt 


“ Good- morning,” he remarked ; I’m glad 
to see you, for I want your advice. What is 
a good cure for insomnia ? ” 

Sleep,” answered one of the afflicted, 
smiling at his companion. 

So all day long, in all parts of the city, 
men, whenever they met, went through much 
the same formula as that briefly outlined 
above. Late in the afternoon an enterprising 
newspaper published a sensational report to 
the effect that an epidemic of insomnia— a 
thing hitherto unknown — had broken out in 
the metropolis. Little excitement was caused 
by this statement until an edition issued at 
nine o’clock stated that the people of Phila- 
delphia complained of sleeplessness. This 
startling announcement filled inen with dis- 
may. The chill of dread expectancy, a weird 
foreboding, cast a gloom over the night’s 
diversions. In clubs and theaters men wore 
haggard, anxious looks, and in the slums 
those who plotted crime ceased their occupa- 
tion for a time and gossiped of the strange 
distemper that had fallen on the earth. 


INSOMNIA MUNDI. 


41 


At tliree o’clock in the morning the streets 
of the city presented an unwonted appear- 
ance. Men, women, and children crowded 
the thoroughfares, and a wild excitement was 
depicted on every countenance. Earlier in 
the night the doctors had been busy pre- 
scribing narcotics to patients who had not 
slept for forty-eight long hours. Before mid- 
nio:ht the drucr stores had exhausted their 
stock of opiates. Still no one slept. Even 
the drowsy watchman failed to catch his 
forty winks. Desperate men drank strong 
liquor, but grew mad, not dull. Street fights 
were frequent, and the overworked police 
found before them a hopeless task. There 
was that in the air that made men defy the 
law and crave the wild joy of anarchy. 

Every hour the newspapers published “ ex- 
tras.” As time passed on it became evident 
that the whole country was afflicted with in- 
somnia. A bulletin issued at four o’clock 
contained a dispatch from Chicago saying 
that no one had slept in that city for two 
nights. 


42 INSOMNIA MUNBL 

I didn’t know tkey ever slept out tliere,” 
remarked a New Yorker, wko liad been dis- 
appointed when the World’s Fair went West. 
Even in their misery the onlookers laughed 
at this. 

As day broke sullenly, the crowds in the 
streets began to decrease in size. 

“We can eat yet,” said one man to his 
wife, as he led her homeward. “ Give me a 
good breakfast, dear, for to-day I’ll need all 
my strength.” 

He spoke the truth. The night had been 
weird enough, but the day revealed a state of 
things that tried the nerves of the most phleg- 
matic. There was crape on many a door- 
knob, for little babies, sleepless for many 
hours, had sunk into eternal rest. Here and 
there, it was said, suicide had done its fatal 
work among high-strung, nervous victims. 
Everybody looked pale and worn. The 
streets presented many sad sights. Here in 
a doorway lay a newsboy, his head pillowed 
on his “ extras,” his body cpiiet, but his fever- 
ish, wide-open eyes telling the story of the 


INSOMNIA MUNDL 


43 


world’s affliction. There two men, insane 
from drink, were fighting over an empty 
fiask. 

Meanwhile the health authorities were 
gathered in solemn session. Science was 
dumb before these strange phenomena that 
demanded instant action. What was the 
cause of this Avidespread sleeplessness ? “ Mi- 

crobes,” suggested a physician, who claimed 
to have discovered the bacillus of epic poetry. 
“ The excessive use of electricity in the large 
cities,” said some one else. The tail of a 
comet,” remarked an old-fashioned thinker. 

Thus these great men went on, each one 
advancing a pet theory and defending it with 
warmth. Perhaps, had they not been Avorn 
out from, lack of sleep, they might have 
reached the same crisis that overtook that 
famous society that Bret Harte tells about, 
Avhere 

Abner Dean of Angels raised a point of 
order, when 

A piece of old red sand-stone struck him in 
the abdomen. 


44 


INSOMNIA MUNDL 


At all events tlie day was passed in useless 
discussion by those responsible for the health 
of the community. They at length issued a 
bulletin calling upon all good citizens to re- 
main quietly at home and take all hygienic 
precautions possible. 

Down town no business was transacted. 
Men roamed about hopelessly, haggard, rest- 
less, sometimes loquacious, more often morose, 
waiting with dread for the coming of night. 

By afternoon it was known of a certainty 
that Europe as well as America had suc- 
cumbed to this mysterious foe to slee23. 

^^It must be awful in Norway and Sweden 
where the nights are so long,” remarked a 
wag who had evidently heard of Sydney 
Smith’s giraffe with the sore throat. 

Never before had the newspapers had so 
much material with which to make sensa- 
tions, but after a few days only one journal 
in the city was able to get out an edition. 
This was owing to the fact that its editors 
and compositors were comparatively old men. 
It was an interesting fact in connection with 


INSOMNIA MUNDL 


45 


tlie great Insomnia Epidemic” that the 
young and the middle-aged went to pieces 
before the aged. 

The death rate increased rapidly. After a 
week of sleeplessness the condition of the 
community was frightful. Insanity and sui- 
cide were rampant. Men preferred the long 
slumber of the grave to a life without rest. 

The railroads stopped running. Mobs of 
maddened men pulled sleeping cars to pieces 
because the legends thereon seemed to mock 
them. Telegraphic communication began to 
be interrupted, and, after a time, ceased alto- 
gether. New York was cut off from the world 
and awaited the end of all things. For men 
had come to the conviction that this fatal epi- 
demic presaged the destruction of the earth. 

Meanwhile all the energies of modern in- 
genuity had been employed to overcome the 
deadly influence that so strangely kept them 
awake. The quack ” and the regular were 
equally unsuccessful. At first a few daring 
money grabbers were bold enough to peddle 
a ^^Sure Cure for Insomnia” through the 


46 


INSOMNIA MUNDL 


streets, but after a number of them bad been 
killed by tbe enraged mobs this misleading 
traffic ceased. 

Ten days went slowly by. No pen can 
picture tbe terrible condition that prevailed. 
War, with all its horrors, is as nothing com- 
pared with a world deserted by tbe goddess 
who knits up tbe raveled sleeve of care. Men 
and women ate, drank, and smoked, both day 
and night, in tbe effort to keep up their 
strength and quiet their throbbing nerves. 
The doctors, overworked, had given up the 
fight and acknowledged that they knew 
neither the cause nor the cure of the uni- 
versal malady. 

The city was hopeless, when one morning, 
while gaunt, ghastly men stood in groups 
upon the corners of the streets and talked in 
Avhispers of their awful doom, there came a 
rumor, whence no one knew, that a man had 
been found asleep in Park Row. Slowly 
creeping down town the emaciated throngs 
sought to verify the news. Soon City Hall 
Square was filled with a surging mob, wild to 


INSOMNIA AlUNDL 


47 


discover one ray of liope in tlie blackness of 
overlianging fate. There was a moment of 
intense silence. Then a buzz, as though men 
whispered to each other, arose on the sullen 
air. In another instant a wild shout of joy 
rang out from that surging mass and then 
died away, as if ten thousand souls had been 
granted a reprieve from death and were silent 
from gratitude. 

‘^A man is sleeping over there,” said the 
crowd to one another, pointing toward Park 
liow. “ The doctor says his slumber is abso- 
lutely normal. He has in his hands a copy of 
London Punchy 

Then followed a strange scene. All the 
printing presses in the neighborhood were set 
at work ; before many hours had passed thou- 
sands of copies of that soporific Punch were 
distributed among the tortured citizens who 
waited patiently below. All night long the 
presses kept turning out the great narcotic, 
and all night long a seething mass of saved 
insomniacs gathered up and spread abroad the 
welcome life-preserver. 


48 


In t OMNIA MtlNDl 


And sleep came again to a community 
grown desperate. Men waited not to reach 
their homes hut sought tlie light of street 
lamps, read a few ]3ages of Punchy and then 
lay down upon the sidewalk and slumbered 
quietly for many hours. The ^4nsomnia epi- 
demic ” had found its antidote. 




X 


THE CZAR’S LIVER. 


1 1HE American eagle is a great bird,” 
remarked one of our countrymen who 
liad just returned from Europe. He was 
smoking an after-dinner cigar with a friend 
wlio bad never crossed tbe big pond. 

As a loyal citizen I agree with you, of 
course,” returned bis guest ; “ but bow was 
your proposition established on tbe other 
side ? ” 

“ AVell, you see I spent a few weeks in St. 
Petersburg, and there I beard a curious 
story about tbe czar that tickled my patriotic 
pride.” 

Yes ? What was it ? ” 

' Perhaps you are not aware that tbe auto- 
crat of all tbe Russias is a bard drinker. 
He is a man of robust mold, full-blooded, 
sensual, and rather inclined to intemperance 

49 


50 


THE CZAR'S LIVEE. 


ill both food and drink. For years lie has 
been in tlie liabit of dining h la stag. Sur- 
rounded by his intimate friends, officers in 
the Kussian army, he spends his evenings in 
getting fuddled. It takes a great deal of 
champagne — his favorite tipple — to make 
any impression on his phlegmatic tempera- 
ment. The Romanoffs are both tankihed 
and cantankerous. Well, as I was saying, he 
has been a wine-bibber most of his life, and, 
until recently, felt no evil effects from his 
persistent potations. About a year ago, 
however, he began to suffer from indigestion. 
With truly regal unconcern he paid no atten- 
tion to his ^symptoms,’ and continued to 
indulge in his nightly debauchery. Finally, 
however, he was obliged to consult his court 
physician, who told him that he must give 
up champagne — that his royal liver was 
affected. 

^ By the blood of all the Slavs, I’ll not 
forego my fizz,’ cried his autocractic nibs, 
and for six weeks he continued to drink four 
quarts of champagne every twenty-four hours. 


THE CZAR^S LIVER. 


51 


“The result can be imagined. The czar 
gre^v testy and unsociable. He even threat- 
ened to march at once against Constantinople, 
and frightened his comrades by his bilious 
badinage. He would satirize the highest 
ambitions of his best friend and threaten his 
most loyal supporter with exile to Siberia. 

“ This condition of affairs lasted for some 
time, until the head that wears a crown 
began to grasp the idea that he had better 
listen to his doctor. He sent again for the 
court practitioner and confessed that lie had 
been drinking champagne in defiance of his 
liver and his health. 

“ ‘ Let me give you a prescription,’ re- 
marked the man of drugs, with an air of 
wisdom that filled the czar with joy. ^ You 
must give up absolutely the use of cigarettes 
and champagne, take your medicine at the 
right time, and conform in all w^ays to the 
rules laid down.’ 

“ ^ I will do as you direct,’ answered the 
czar humbly, placing his hand u^Don his liver 
and bowing with stately pride. 


52 


THE CZAU'S LIVEU, 


Perhaps he intended at the moment to 
fulfill his promise to the Kussian scientist. 
Perhaps for a time he Avas startled by the 
fear that fizz might be more fatal than dyna- 
mite. Perhaps he thought of his family and 
his subjects and resolved to lead a new life 
and look out for his liver. Let us give him 
the benefit of these suppositions. But the 
unpleasant fact remains that he soon fell 
from the high rank of a sober man, and ten 
days later found himself unable to resist tlie 
siren sound of a popping cork. Sic semper 
tyrannis. 

After a Avhile all Europe was cognizant of 
the fact that the czar had liver complaint. 
From Berlin, Vienna, Palis, and even London 
experts in liA^er diseases flocked to St. Peters- 
burg. The czar began to dread a doctor 
more than he did a nihilist. He, hoAA^ever, 
subjected himself to all kinds of poisons and 
potions, but in the sacred recesses of his in- 
ner chamber continued to drink champagne. 
Thus it happened that Avhatever Avas gained 
by treatment was lost by secret dissipation. 


Tim CZAU'S LTVEU 


5S 

Finally tlie czar became so yellow and ema- 
ciated that lie liardly dared to appear in pub- 
lic. He could not sleep. The gases in his 
stomach gave him such pain that he became 
convinced that he had heart disease. At 
this crisis somebody informed the autocrat 
that there were esoteric Buddhists who could 
relieve his agony. He at once sent to India 
for the most accomplished manipulators of' 
drims in that strange land. The rewards he 
held out were so great that a hundred tur- 
baned, long-bearded men appeared at St. 
Petersburg, anxious to examine the czar and 
gain an opportunity to allay the congestion 
of his champagne agitated organ. One by 
one they were received at the palace, and one 
by one they w^ent away in despair. The 
czar’s condition was so bad that they did not 
dare to guarantee his recovery. 

“ Such was the state of affairs when a young 
American, who had studied his profession at 
a German university, and had practiced in 
New York, appeared on the scene. He heard 
the gossip that was flying around and imme- 


54 


THE CZAHS LIVER 


(liately sent liis card to the czar. He had 
made a speciality of liver troubles. When he 
was admitted to the royal presence his inde- 
pendent bearing at once won the good-will of 
the autocrat. 

“'Your trouble is not due to what you 
drink, but to what you eat/ remarked our 
countryman earnestly. 'I will permit you 
to indulge in as much champagne as you wish, 
if you give me the right to regulate what you 
eat.’ 

“The czar was overjoyed. He saw at once 
that the young man was in full, command of 
his metier, 

“ ' I will do as you direct,’ said the czar 
humbly. ' So long as you let me indulge in 
fizz, I agree to conform in all other respects 
to your regimen.’ 

“ My story is now at an end. Our young 
countiyman made a wonderful cure. He cut 
off the czar’s beef and made him eat oatmeal. 
He gave him chicken for dinner and all the 
wine that he could drink. The result Avas 
that the autocrat began to regain his color and 


THE CZAR’S LIVER. 


55 


the pains around his heart disappeared. He 
gave the American a check for one hundred 
thousand dollars and offered him a place at 
court. When the latter was refused he con- 
ferred upon him the Order of the Sacred 
Star.” 

And where is the young doctor now ? ” 
asked the guest. 

He’s dead. He died of over-indulgence 
in champagne.” 


A COUNTRY DOCTOR 


NE star differs from another in glory. 



There is high authority for this asser- 
tion, but its evident truth is of no special sig- 
nificance to a sick man. Perhaps even to a 
man in perfect health it is not of striking 
importance. But to the observant mind it is 
interesting to note that the country doctor 
differs greatly from his professional brother 
of the city. I was struck by this fact a fcAV 
days ago during a sojourn in the hill country 
of Connecticut. While there I passed a day 
with a leading physician of the township. 
He leads a queer life. 

A city doctor knows nothing of the diffi- 
culties we encounter,” reinarked my friend as 
we drove toward the well-tilled fields lying 
beyond the village. It was early morning, 
and the air was as fresh as a young man just 


A COUNTRY DOCTOR. 


57 


out of college. Tlie doctor had been up for 
two hours, placing the affairs of his office on 
a solid basis. You see,” he continued, “it 
is not so bad in summer, but when the mow 
comes I lead a terrible life. I freeze my 
nose and ears, I am overthrown by drifts, at 
night I suffer from cold, and at midday the 
sunlight on the snow hurts my eyes. Never- 
theless, I am happy.” 

He whistled a merry tune, touched his mare 
with the whip, and in a few minutes drew up 
at a farmhouse whose white walls and green 
blinds were painfully inartistic. 

He was gone fifteen minutes, a doleful 
quarter qf an hour for me. A cow munched 
grass in the front yard, and an old oaken 
bucket was the only “ citified ” thing in sight. 
By that strange law of action and reaction, it 
took me back to that awful night when I saw 
“The Old Homestead” at the Fourteenth 
Street Theater. 

When the doctor had replaced his drug 
store underneath the seat and had gathered 
up the reins, I asked : 


58 


A COUNTRY DOCTOR. 


What kind of a case did you strike 
there ? ” 

Nothing serious/’ he answered. “ A 
young woman of seventy is suffering from 
facial neuralgia. She has youth and enei'gy 
in her favor, however, and will be all right in 
a day or two.” 

I looked at him in surprise. Had his lonely 
life affected his brain ? 

One trouble I have,” he went on, lies in 
the fact that I cannot obtain any assistance in 
critical cases. When one of your New York 
physicians desires advice from a colleague all 
he has to do is to send a message down the 
block somewhere. There are times when I 
would give half my income for another doc- 
tor’s aid, but I can’t get it. I have to follow 
the bird that flocked by itself, and do my 
own consulting. I must stop here a moment. 
I’ll be out again in flve minutes.” 

I don’t believe a rural physician has any 
idea of time. It may be that he has the 
ability to count a pulse, but his interpreta- 
tion of what is comprised in the expression 


A COUNTRY DOCTOR. 


59 


minutes ” is peculiar. I held that mare 
for fully half an hour. The hies bothered 
her and she grew restless. There was no re- 
lief for me but to gaze at the undulating 
landscape and indulge in day-dreams. “A 
pleasing land of drowsyhed it was, of 
dreams that wave before the half-shut eye, 
and of gay castles in the clouds that pass, 
forever flushing ’round a summer sky.” On 
a verdure ci'owned hill some miles to the 
northward arose a gigantic tree that seemed 
to rejoice in its enormous size. Perhaps be- 
neath its branches the treacherous red-skin 
had closed his heavy eyes. Perhaps it will 
look down upon the valley when Chicago has 
grown modest and Patagonia has been ad- 
mitted into the Union. 

Such feverish fancies filled my mind until 
the doctor’s return. 

What’s the matter inside ? ” I asked. 

^^Oh, nothing to worry about. The sick 
man is about ninety-eight years old and over- 
worked himself yesterday in the hay field. 
He’ll come out all right. I’ve prescribed a 


60 


A COUNTRY DOCTOR. 


day’s rest and a calomel pill. AYliy, do you 
know, that man in spite of his age can do 
more on a farm in a week, than you and I 
could do in a month. This is a healthy coun- 
try, my friend.” 

I began to think he was right. During the 
morning he made ten calls. Not one of his 
patients was under seventy years of age. At 
dinner, however, his telephone rang — for they 
have a few modern appliances up there, in- 
cluding a tank drama — and he was urged to 
hasten to the bedside of a sick baby. I 
went with him and held the mare. “ There’s 
naught so much the spirit soothes, as rum and 
true religion,” remarked Byron, a poet once 
in vogue. It is evident that he had never 
waited for a country doctor as he tended a 
crying child. Such an experience is not only 
soothing to the spirit, it is a narcotic to the 
senses. When the doctor returned I was fast 
asleep, while the mare was in a state of semh 
collapse. 

What did you do for the baby ? ” I 


A COUNTRY DOCTOR. 


61 


Told them to kill the cow,” lie answered 
crossly, and I did not pursue tlie subject. 

Later in the afternoon lie was called to a 
patient living eight miles away. Our road 
led through a dense forest and the air was 
stilling. Before we had emerged from the 
woods a storm came on and the lightning 
flashed around us in a realistic way worthy 
of a well staged rendition of “ Uncle Tom’s 
Cabin.” We were wetted to the skin and 
my companion seemed to realize that the ex- 
perience was not pleasant to me, for he offered 
me a cigar. Amid the war of elements I 
grew desperate and lighted his gift. After 
the first puff I really hoped that I should be 
stricken by lightning. 

The shower had cleared away as we drew 
up before a low-roofed, red-painted cottage 
surrounded by trees. A very pretty girl 
opened the door to the doctor and I continued 
my occupation of holding a mare that would 
not have run away under the impulsion of a 
dynamite bomb. My friend returned after 
the expiration of ^n exceedingly short time. 


62 


A COUNTRY DOCTOR. 


“ Nobody sick in there,” he remarked ; “ an 
old woman nervous, that’s all.” 

“ How old ? ” I asked anxiously. 

“ One hundred and six. She’s beginning 
to grow somewhat supersensitive.” 

On our return to the office we found sev- 
eral patients waiting for the dispenser of 
potions, pills, and powders. My doctor spent 
an hour or. more relieving the aches and 
pains that had sought him out. Then we had 
supper. Before the meal was over the tele- 
phone rang again. The man of science 
serenely abandoned his cold ham and iced 
tea, and I could hear him say : 

Yes; give the baby two drops at eleven.” 

What’s that ? I don’t hear you.” 

“ Yes ; that’s right. Two drops at eleven.” 

“ Hello. No ; don’t wake her up during 
the night. If she’s restless at sunrise rub 
her with oil. That’s all. Good-by.” 

Before he could resume his supper a pa- 
tient rang the office bell. My doctor was 
engaged for an hour. When he rejoined me 
on the piazza the mare was at the door. 


A COUNTRY nOOTOn. 


63 


“ More calls ? ” I asked. 

“ Yes, of course ; I always spend the even- 
ing on tlie road.” 

We were gone until eleven o’clock. The 
roads we traversed, the darkness of the woods, 
the dreary barking of watch-dogs are to me 
like an unpleasant dream. We returned to 
the office tired and worn. The doctor looked 
pale, and I supposed, of course, that he would 
go at once to bed. What was my astonish- 
ment to see him place upon his desk a num- 
ber of account-books. 

Is not your day’s work done ? ” I asked. 

He smiled hopelessly. “Just begun, my 
boy. If I didn’t work now the results of the 
last twelve hours would amount to nothing 
in dollars and cents.” 

Then he spent half an hour in making 
notes of his day’s labor. I watched him with 
an emotion that was almost reverential. Here, 
if anywhere, was a man. Subduing all incli- 
nations toward frivolity, or even healthy rec- 
reation, he goes on his way, day after day, 
applying as skillfully as he can the scientific 


64 


A COUNTRY DOCTOR. 


knowledge in liis grasp. For liim there is no 
night, no Sunday, no vacation; always light- 
ing death, he gives up his life to the conflict. 
And what does he find ? Testy patients, ig- 
norant people who neglect his commands, un- 
grateful fools who seem to think that he is a 
slave to their demands, men and women ^vho 
look for miracles, and do not know that even 
a doctor cannot always stay the hand of Ter- 
ror’s King. 

‘"And now for bed ! ” I exclaimed, as he 
laid aside his books. 

‘‘ Not yet. I must have my case refilled.” 

Out into the night again. Near at hand a 
light gleamed in the window of a drug store. 
A sleepy clerk answered our knock, and in a 
few moments my doctor Avas busy Avith the 
bottles on the shelf. He Avas at Avork for 
fully half an hour. In his case he carried 
fifty vials. Many of the drugs had been 
exhausted in the day’s routine, and the act of 
replenishing took time. I yaAAmed and fret- 
ted, but the doctor seemed to feel no fatigue, 
‘‘lie is made of iron,” I said to myself 


A COUNTRY DOCTOR. 


65 


as be strode homeward with a firm and 
even tread. 

I had almost fallen to sleep later on, when 
I heard some one descending the stairs. It 
was twelve o’clock. 

Where are you going ? ” I asked, as I 
recognized the doctor’s portly form. 

Into the office for an hour,” he remarked. 

This is the only time in which I have a 
chance to do any scientific reading.” 

I went back to bed, but I could not sleep. 
I was wondering how much my friend made 
a year. At breakfast, the next morning, I 
said : 

“ Doctor, I don’t want to be impertinent ; 
but will you kindly tell me how much your 
practice pays you ? ” 

He smiled quizzically as he answered : 

I earn $2000 a year. I collect about 

$ 900 .” 


A SOARED BRITON. 


T~T was tlie smoking compartment of a 
sleeper bound for St. Paul from Chicago. 
The tobacco victims there assembled had 
never met before, but their indulgence in a 
bad habit made between them a bond of sym- 
pathy, and after a time they grew talkative. 
There was in the party a young Englishman, 
traveling for pleasure ; a drummer, selling 
cigars ; an agent for a famous circus ; a news- 
paper man from Boston ; the Pullman con- 
ductor, and your humble servant. 

The Englishman remarked, after the 
weather and the crops had been exhausted : 

Ah, isn’t thah some danejah in traveling 
in this country? I’ve been told as ’ow a 
train is ’eld • hup now and then by ’ighway- 
men.” 

His peculiar manipulation of the letter 
66 


A SCAHEJ) BRITON, 


67 


li ” convinced us at once that he was at 
least an English peer, and possibly related to 
the royal family. Perhaps he was searching 
for a “wealthy Hamerican gyurl.” 

“You’re right,” broke in the Boston jour- 
nalist. “ Our train between Boston and 
Springfield was stopped in a deserted locality 
one day last week by mounted desperadoes 
from Worcester. Some of my fellow passen- 
gers lost their watches and our conductor lost 
his head.” 

“ My heyes ! ” cried the lording. “ So far 
heast, too I ” 

“ That’s nothing,” commented the Pullman 
conductor, whose thin face betrayed no appre- 
ciation of humor. “ As I pulled out of St. 
Paul a few nights ago somebody slipped a 
note into my hand. It read : ^ Look out for 
the Harding gang. They intend to give you 
the razzle-dazzle to-night.’ ” 

“ What’s that ? ” asked the Briton. 

“ It’s an Indian phrase, meaning ^ a general 
massacre,’ ” explained the Bostonian. 

“ Bah Jove ! ” 


68 


A SCARED BRITON. 


“Well,” continued the conductor, “ I did 
not pay much attention to the warning. I 
knew the Harding gang by reputation, but I 
was not afraid of them. I have run trains 
in Texas, and have often had my lights shot 
out by cow-boys. I did not, therefore, dread 
the semi-civilized outlaws of this part of the 
country. We had reached this vicinity that 
evening, when the train suddenly stopped. I 
rushed forward to see what was the matter, 
and was confronted by a masked robber, who 
told me to hold up my hands. I did as he 
directed. There are times when I prefer de- 
feat to death. This was one of them. I 
threw up my palms toAvard the lamps, and 
the outlaw emptied my pockets. His pals, 
seven in number, went through the train in 
the good-natured way peculiar to their kind, 
and gathered in a vast deal of booty. Then 
they bid us farewell, and we moved on 
through the night. I have more respect 
for the Harding gang than I had a month 
ago.” The conductor tipped me a solemn 
wink. 


A SOARED BRITON. 


69 


Tlie Englishman was growing very ner- 
vous. 

Perfectly h awful,” he exclaimed. “ Did 
they catch the bloomin’ crooks ? ” 

No. In fact, we have reason to believe 
that they contemplate another attack.” 

Milord lighted a fresh cigar. I noticed 
that his hand trembled. 

How far West are you going? ” somebody 
asked him. 

Hi’m not quite certain,” he replied. Hi 
thought of seeing San Francisco.” 

o o 

You take your life in your hands, 
stranger,” remarked the commercial traveler, 
who seemed annoyed at the vile odor of the 
Englishman’s cigar. There is no end to the 
dangers incident to travel between here and 
the coast.” 

It’s not so much highwaymen I fear as 
cyclones,” broke in the circus agent. “ Why, 
do you know, it was only about ten miles 
west of here that a funnel-shaped cloud took 
hold of our tent, a few weeks ago, and lifted 
the whole concern, including the elephants 


VO A SOAUBD BRITON. 

and tlie living skeleton, into the next county. 
It saved car fare, of course ; but if we had 
struck a mountain it would have been a bad 
thing for the show.” 

“ Bah Jove ! ” exclaimed the Briton, agliast. 

You were in great luck,” remarked the 
conductor. I had an experience between 
St. Paul and Omaha that w^as not so for- 
tunate. We were booming along at the 
rate of forty miles an hour one morning 
when I noticed a storm coming on us from 
the south. Suddenly everything grew black 
as night, and I felt the train rise from the 
track on the wings of a relentless wind. We 
were carried northward about t^venty miles, 
when the wind loosened its grip and the train 
sank, by a wonderful chance, upon the tracks 
of a parallel road. The wheels of the engine 
were still revolving, and we rushed on toward 
Omaha. We were on the wrong side of the 
road, however, and ran plump into an express 
train bound for St. Paul. Only thirty people 
were killed, fortunately, and I escaped with- 
out a scratch.” 


A SGAEEI) BRITON. 


71 


The Englishman had grown very pale. 
“ Have you got anything to drink ? ” he 
asked of the porter, who had just appeared 
after a three hours’ nap. 

This way, sah. May be able to give you 
a flask, sah.” 

When the Briton returned there was more 
color in his cheeks. We had been indulging 
in a quiet laugh at his expense, but regained 
our gravity at once in the hope that he would 
pass around the flask he had just purchased. 
He seated himself calmly, however, wiped liis 
mouth with a silk handkerchief, and seemed 
to feel that he had been thoroughly hospit- 
able. 

Ah, by the way,” he began, hahr these 
cyclones as frequent as they seem to be de- 
structive ? ” 

I should say so,” answered the newspaper 
man. spent a week here in Minnesota 
once and we had a storm every evening at ten. 
Let me see, it’s now half after nine. I should 
not be surprised if ^ve struck a cyclone within 
the next ten miles. I should like to have you 


72 


A SCABBD BRITOK 


see one. They are one of the proudest pro- 
ducts of our land.” 

“ Thanks,” returned milord. I should like 
very much to have some acquaintance with 
them.” 

The train slowed up just here, and then 
came to a dead stop. The conductor had dis- 
appeared. I saw the Englishman put his 
hand on his watch and glance at the door in 
a nervous way. He had not forgotten the 
tales of highwaymen he had just heard. 
When we had resumed our journey, the com- 
mercial man remarked : 

I do so much traveling that my nerves 
have become dulled, but there is one form of 
disaster that is ever in my mind.” 

V What is that ? ” asked the Britisher ap- 
prehensively. 

am always fearful that the train will 
leave the track. You see w^e have to depend 
upon the skill and care of men who do not 
possess a vast amount of either. For instance, 
the track beyood here for fifty miles has been 
in b^d ooftdition for a year, It is now being 


A SCAmiD BRITOK. 


73 


repaired ; but suppose that a reckless work- 
man leaves his tools in our way, or fails to 
rivet his rails with requisite force, where are 
we ? It’s horrible to think of.” 

The Englishman turned white again, pulled 
out his flask, took a long drink, gazed through 
the Avindow for a moment, and then mutter- 
ing a hoarse “ good-night,” sought such repose 
as was available in lower four.” 

I did not see the victim of my countrymen’s 
gossip again until I reached Omaha. I Avas 
seated at the breakfast table one morning 
Avhen he Joined me. 

Still going westAvard ? ” I remarked. 

“Yes — I suppose so.” 

He had in his hand a morning neAvspaper. 
As he glanced over the telegraphic columns 
his face greAV pale. I looked at my Journal 
and saw the following headlines : 

“ Cyclone in Wilkesbarre, Pa.” 

“ A Passenger Train held up on the Mis- 
souri Pacific.” 

“Terrible Accident Due to a Broken Rail 
on the Old Colony Road.” 


74 


A SCABBD BRITOK 


The Englishman had started for the 
door. 

Where are you going ? ” I cried. 

“To England, damn you,” was his dis- 
courteous answer. 


A TALE FROM CAIRO. 


NE afternoon last winter a young New 



Yorker and an English lordling sat on 
the piazza of the New Hotel, Cairo, Egypt. 
It was a glorious day, and the garden that 
stretched before them was an Oriental dream. 

I had a stunning adventure yesterday,” 
Lord Branford was saying. You see, I was 
out for a ride, and about a mile from here I 
heard behind me the clatter of hoofs. I 
turned in my saddle and saw that the black 
rascal who was driving a pair of clean-cut 
white horses had lost his grip on them. In 
the carriage was a beautiful woman who, in 
her excitement, had thrown up her veil. She 
was in imminent danger for a moment ; but 
as the runaways dashed past me I put spurs 
to my horse, and in another instant had 


75 


76 


A TALE FROM CAIRO. 


grasped one of tlie wliite plungers by tbe 
head. I was nearly thrown to the ground, 
but the coachman managed to get hold of the 
reins again, and the peril to us all was soon 
past. As I turned to ride off, the woman, 
still unveiled, gave me a charming smile. I 
raised my hat, cried ^ Allah be praised,’ in a 
most devout way, and left her to the care of 
her reckless driver. I must acknowledge, 
old man, that I have been in love just 
twenty-four hours.” 

Machmoud Bey, a wealthy young Egyp- 
tian, who had been educated in Paris, and was 
one of the best-known men in Cairo, had 
overheard a portion of the Englishman’s 
anecdote. 

“ You are very unlucky, my lord,” he re- 
marked, seating himself. “You have gazed 
upon the face of Said Pasha’s favorite. No 
man is ever happy again after seeing the 
light of our old friend’s harem.” 

“ Poor fellow ; I’m sorry for you,” said 
Dick Dalton, the American, turning a sympa- 
thetic face toward Lord Branford. “ But, as 


A TALE FROM CAIRO. 




one of my historic countrymen remarked, 
wliat are you going to do about it?” 

Nothing, I suppose, but go to the grave 
with a broken heart.” 

“ Perhaps I can help you out,” suggested 
Machmoud insinuatingly. am on good 
terms with the Pasha, and can get speech 
with the chief of his eunuchs. Perhaps a 
bribe, American in size, might enable you to 
have a few words with your inamorata in the 
garden of the harem.”^ 

Lord Branford brightened. “ Do you think 
so? I’d give a thousand pounds to have a 
chance to thank her for that smile.” 

Too much money,” commented Mach- 
moud. “Half the amount will do.” 

“ You’ll stick by me, Dalton ? ” asked Lord 
Brauford. 

The young American hesitated. He ^vas 
in love with Lady Gwendolen, Branford’s 
sister, and he knew that he had a rival in 
Machmoud Bey. He feared that the crafty 
Egyptian was attempting to play a sharp 
game. However, he did not wish to appear 


78 


A TALE FROM CAIRO. 


a coward before an Englishman, so he an- 
swered : 

Of course I will ; singing merrily, ^ Over 
the Garden Wall,’ we’ll beard the Pasha in 
his den.” 

Machmoud smiled courteously, and his 
white teeth glistened in contrast with his 
dark skin. 

^‘Meet me here to-night at nine. You’ll 
have no climbing to do. The eunuch will 
admit you through the gate. I must hurry 
off now. I have much to do.” 

Lord Branford handed the Egyptian five 
one-hundred-pound notes. 

^Wou are sure that is enough?” he asked. 

“ Of course it is. But you must be very 
much in love.” 

With that Machmoud took his departure. 

Getting into a harem in Cairo is like get- 
ting into office in America,” remarked Dalton. 

The campaign expenses are heavy.” 

It was a beautiful night; a. night such as 
one finds only in Egypt. Beneath such skies 
the triumphs of Cleopatra were not difficult. 


A TALE FROM CAIRO. 


She could never have held Marc Antony 
had she been surrounded by a London fog or 
a Boston drizzle. Great romances need a ro- 
mantic background. 

Some such thought as this was in the mind 
of Lord Branford, as, accompanied by Mach- 
moud Bey and Dick Dalton, he left a modern 
hotel on a mediaeval errand. He was not the 
type of English aristocrat that playwrights 
place upon the stage. He was a tall, dark, 
handsome man, with a Byronic face and a 
deep, melodious voice. He was just the kind 
of a hero to make love gracefully in a moon- 
lit garden of the Orient. He seemed to 
realize this, for he hummed a song of passion 
as he strode onward. 

Keep quiet, Don Juan,” whispered Dal- 
ton, as they approached the Pasha’s palace. 

You’ll rouse the dog.” Dalton had lived in 
Kew England. 

Machmoud Bey, who had seemed to grow 
more and more nervous as they went for- 
ward, seized his companions by the arms and 
drew them toward a high wall that sur- 


80 


A TALE FROM CAIRO. 


rounded tlie garden. The moon cast long 
shadows across the ground and the palm trees 
waved in the night wind. 

Wait here a moment,” whispered 
Machmoud. “I’ll go and give the signal.” 
He left them and approached the gate- 
way. 

“ Do you thoroughly trust that fellow ? ” 
asked Dalton of his companion, in a low 
tone. 

“ Of course I don’t. I’m an Englishman.” 
Tliere was a good deal of condensed history 
in his answer. 

Machmoud soon rejoined them. 

“ Come,” he said. 

“ Are you armed ? ” asked Dalton, beneath 
his breath, and with his mouth close to Bran- 
ford’s ear. 

“ Of course not. If we were caught in 
there with weapons it Avould go hard with 
us.” 

In another instant they had passed through 
the gate, where a black-faced, villainous- 
lookiiig eunuch had bowed low to them, and 


A TALE FROM CAIRO. 


81 


smiled as though in gratitude. Five hundred 
pounds is a large sum of money, even to the 
manager of a harem. 

The garden in which Lord Branford and 
his companions found themselves was small, 
but of wonderful beauty. Tropical plants, 
flowing fountains, and picturesque rocks ren- 
dered it a miniature paradise. The three 
men stood silent for a moment, enjoying the 
beauties of the scene before them. Then the 
Englishman whispered to Machmoud : 

Where is Favor ita ? ” 

There she stands,” answered the Egyp- 
tian, pointing to a figure in white, partially 
concealed in the shadow of a huge marble 
vase. Branford rushed forward eagerly, and 
Dalton followed him. In an instant there 
arose a sharp cry of amazement from the 
Englishman, followed by something that 
sounded like an oath. The white-robed 
figure had stepped forward into the moon- 
light, and, behold, there was the squat form 
and evil face of Said Pasha. 

By the beard of the prophet ! ” he cried. 


.82 


A TALE FROM CAIRO. 


“ you young men are rash. Do you kno^v 
that your lives are in my power ? ” 

A crowd of eunuchs, fully armed, had 
gathered around the central group. 

What does this mean, Machmoud ? ” asked 
the Pasha sternly. 

“ It means,” answered the treacherous 
Egyptian, that this young American is in 
love with one of your women.” 

That’s a lie,” cried Dalton ; but he went 
no further, for Branford’s hand was on his 
mouth. ^‘Keep quiet. The Pasha has the 
right to do with us as he pleases,” he whis- 
pered. 

Perhaps so,” returned Machmoud gently. 

My friend Said can determine that for him- 
self.” 

^ Speak, my lord,” said the Pasha, turning 
toward the real offender. “ I alw'ays believe 
an Englishman.” 

This seemed as hard a hit at Machmoud as 
at Dalton. 

The fact is,” began Branford slowly, 
“ that there is no woman in the case at all. 


A Tale from Cairo. ^ 83 

My friend and I were anxious to see your 
famous garden before leaving Cairo. Per- 
haps we were indiscreet, but we really meant 
no discourtesy toward you, Said Pasha.” 

“ Great Scott. You’re worse than an 
Egyptian, Branford,” muttered Dalton. 

Meanwhile Machmoud and the Pasha were 
conversing in low tones. 

You have a sister. Lord Branford. My 
friend Machmoud here loves her,” said the 
Pasha at length. “ You, of course, realize 
that I have the legal right to put you 
and your friend to death. You remember 
the fate of some of your countrymen who 
have dared to invade harems. Now, no one 
knows of your presence here save Mach- 
moud. If I have you both beheaded, no- 
body will ever find out what becomes of 
you. My ultimatum is this : If you will 
sign a paper agreeing to confer your sister 
on Machmoud, we will let you go. Other- 
wise, we shall be obliged to cut your throats. 
I will give you ten minutes in which to come 
to a decision. Machmoud Bey and myself 


84 


A TALE FWM CAIRO. 


realize that when an Englishman signs his 
name to a docnment he never goes back on 
the promise he has made. You and the 
American may confer in private, if you 
wish.” 

In another moment Branford and Dalton 
were seemingly left alone. But they knew 
that any attempt to escape would be 
useless. 

“ What shall we do ? ” asked Dalton des- 
perately. I wish I had that Machmoud by 
the throat.” 

Don’t get excited, old man. Everything 
will be all right. I shall sign the paper.” 

a I 

Yes, of course I will.” 

“ Ho, there. Said Pasha. Come back. We 
have reached a verdict.” 

On the instant the moonlit garden was 
alive with dusky forms. 

^AVhat is your choice?” said the pot- 
bellied Pasha, stroking his tierce-looking 
beard. 

I prefer my head to my sister,” answered 


A TALE EROM CAIRO. 


85 


Branford, with Oriental sententionsness. Dal- 
ton groaned aloud. 

Bring writing materials,” ordered the 
Pasha hoarsely. Quick, there ! These 
Englishmen are very fickle.” 

A strange scene was then enacted. The 
romantic lookiing Englishman seated himself 
at a table, brought forward by slaves, and 
attached his name to the document drawn up 
by Machmoud Bey. Dalton stood looking 
on in despair, while the Pasha, a grotesque 
figure in the half light, laughed noiselessly. 
The stoical eunuchs gazed at the little group 
indifferently. Perhaps in their phlegmatic 
hearts they were sorry that they were not to 
take part in a bloody tragedy. 

When the paper had been duly signed, 
and unwillingly witnessed by Dick Dalton, 
the prisoners were conducted to the gate and 
released. 

Now you may sing ^Over the Garden 
Wall,’ if you wish, Mr. Dalton,” cried Mach- 
moud Bey triumphantly. 

Curse you,” returned the American. 


A TALE FROM CAIRO. 


Three hours later Lord Branford, Dick 
Dalton, Lady Gwendolen, and her chaperone 
were booming along toward Alexandria on a 
special train, hired for the occasion. 

But does not your conscience trouble 
you, my lord ? ” asked Dalton. 

Not at all, old man. They are nothing 
but a pack of rascally Egyptians.” 


DURSTON’S BURGLAR. 


nVyTR. RICHARD DURSTON, bachelor, 
liad always been afraid of burglars and 
susceptible old maids. He could not remem- 
ber the time when the dread of being robbed, 
or sued for a breach of promise, was not upon 
him. In other respects he was quite coura- 
geous. He never seemed to feel nervous 
about dogs, lightning, or fire. He even dared 
to do right, now and then. On the whole he 
was as plucky as the average man, in spite of 
his conviction that the time would come when 
he would have trouble with a burglar and a 
suit at law with an old maid. Circumstances 
have proved that his presentiment was based 
on clairvoyant power. You remember the 
Hurston breach-of-promise case, do you not ? 
I’ll tell you the inside history of it some day. 
Just at present, however, I shall devote my- 

87 


88 


DURSTON’S BURGLAR. 


self to giving you an account of Durst on’s 
adventure witli a burglar. The newspapers 
have never done full justice to the affair. 

Durston, as you know, lives in a handsome 
house on an uptown cross street. He has al- 
ways held that the majority of burglaries are 
effected through the treachery of servants. 
He has, therefore, kept bachelor’s hall for 
many years with the aid of only one assist- 
ant — an old woman — a kind of heirloom in 
his family. As he generally dines at his 
club, he has managed to live very comfortably, 
wdthout keeping a boarding-house for men 
and women who might be in league with rob- 
bers. His aged housekeeper is not ambitious. 
He feels confident that she will never sue him 
for breach of promise, nor permit a burglar 
to make a breach in the house. 

Hurston’s library and bedroom are on tlie 
second floor. The old woman sleeps in a 
back room on the floor above. She is very 
deaf, so when Hurston wishes to call her he 
touches a button at the head of his bed. 
This sends a mild electric current through the 


DURSTON'S BURGLAR. 


89 


reclining form of tlie housekeeper upstairs 
and she rushes down to her master. She ap- 
proves of this process in the belief that it 
tends to hold her rheumatism in check. It 
seems a very shocking way to treat an old 
woman, however. And then Durston must 
find it unpleasant to discharge a servant two 
or three times a day. 

But revenons a nos burglar. One night 
last winter Durston reached home rather 
earlier than usual. As was his custom, he 
examined the doors and windows in the lower 
part of the house and then went to the library. 
Pie found his smoking jacket and slippers in 
their accustomed place. A wood fire was 
crackling in the grate and a decanter of whis- 
ky and a box of cigars tempted him from 
the center table. Durston smiled contentedly 
as he di'ew an easy chair toward the fire. 
Life was very pleasant to him. He w^as one 
of those happy bachelors who have no regrets. 
Not that Durston lacked sentiment. Far 
from it. In fact he was not at all what the 
world calls a practical man — as that breach 


90 


DUliSTON'S BURGLAR. 


of promise affair abundantly proved. You 
remember liow he — but never mind that just 
now. 

No, Durston was inclined to look at the 
romantic side of life, and as he smoked a per- 
fecto and sipped his whisky and seltzer in 
front of the blaze that night he indulged in 
imaginings that would have shocked the hard- 
headed housekeeper upstairs worse than did 
her private electric current the day the bat- 
tery was overcharged. 

Durston had for the moment forgotten all ^ 
about old maids and burglars. He was in a 
condition of bodily and mental repose that 
drove into outer darkness all the unpleasant 
things of life. Finally the conviction came 
upon him slowly that it was time to go to 
bed. He fought hard against the proposition, 
but there was no escape for him. Looking at 
his watch he found that it w^as long after one 
o’clock. Turning out the lights in the li- 
brary, he entered his bedroom. He was still 
in a state of sleepy contentment. Just as he 
was about to put out the gas, he was startled 


DUBSTOJ^^S BUBGLAB. 


91 


by a slight noise that seemed to come from 
the cellar. He listened intently. Five min- 
utes passed but there were no further sounds 
from below. Durston surrounded himself by 
perfect' darkness and crawled into bed. But 
he could not sleep. That unlucky noise had 
rendered him feverish. The thought of bur- 
glars had destroyed his serenity of mind. His 
revolver lay on a chair by the bedside and 
he kept his hand on it for some time. The 
weapon seemed to whisper to him : “ Peace, 
Durston; go to sleep, my child. I will not 
go oft* until the burglar comes.” 

This assurance on the part of the pistol 
quieted Durston somewhat and he was begin- 
ning to feel very sleepy again when he heard 
a light step on the stairs. There was no mis- 
take about it. After keeping sullenly aloof 
for years, Durston’s burglar had come at last. 
At first our bachelor felt a cold chill creeping 
up his spinal column. Then, as the burglar 
carefully stole through the hall and entered 
the library, Durston was astonished to realize 
that he was lying in bed with a pistol in lus 


92 


DUMS TON'S BURG LAB. 


hand, a honse-breaker in the next room, and 
that he was beginning to enjoy the adventure. 
The thought flashed through his mind that 
even a breach of promise case might not be 
as horrible as he had imagined. 

^‘The reckless fellow seems to think that 
there’s nobody in the house,” chuckled Durs- 
ton, as he heard his visitor light a burner in 
the library. Then quietly getting out of bed 
and stepping gently to the door of his bed- 
room, Durston pointed the revolver at a 
small, dark, rather well-dressed man who 
stood in the center of the library, looking 
about him eagerly. 

“Put up your hands, or I’ll send a ball 
through you,” cried Durston sternly. 

The dapper little burglar saw at a glance 
that his game was up. 

“Don’t do anything rash,” he remarked 
calmly, helping himself to a stiff dose of 
Durston’s whisky and then lighting one of 
his unwilling host’s cigars. 

Durston was astonished and amused. “ Now 
tluat I’ve got mj burglar after waiting for him 


DURSTON'8 BURGLAR. 


93 


SO many years, I might as well make a little 
pleasure out of him,” he said to himself. 
Then to the burglar : 

“You’re a cool one. I congratulate you 
on your nerve. You will pardon me, how- 
ever, if I ask you to take the trouble to lay 
aside your cigar for a moment and step to the 
telephone.” 

The burglar looked sharply at Durston, 
who still covered him with the revolver. 
There was that in the bachelor’s face that 
shook the coolness of the intruder. He 
walked quickly to the telephone. 

“Take down that pamphlet there,” con- 
tinued Durston. “ Now look up the call for 

the Precinct Station House. Have you 

found it ? ” 

“Yes.” 

“ Ping up the Central Office.” 

The burglar sullenly turned the crank. 

“ You know what to do now. Go ahead.” 

A glance at the revolver was sufficient for 
the frightened little man. He briskly gave 
the required number to the operator. 


94 


DUBSTON'S BURGLAR. 


Is this the Precinct Station House ? ” 

he asked, after a time. All right. W ait a 
moment.” 

^‘Tell them you’re a burglar, and want a 
policeman sent here at once to arrest you,” 
commanded Hurston, smiling grimly. 

Will one policeman do, they ask,” said 
the burglar. 

“ Use your own judgment in that matter,” 
remarked Hurston politely. 

Hello, hello ! Yes — one will do very 
nicely. Hurry him up, please. Yes. Thank 
you. Good-night ! ” 

“ You did very well,” commented our 
bachelor. “ If you robbed as cleverly as you 
telephone you would not be where you are 
now. I must put you to the inconvenience of 
stepping into my bedroom for a moment. I 
want my housekeeper to see a nice little bur- 
glar who has ordered his own arrest.” 

Hurston, with his pistol still in hand, 
touched the electric button at the head of 
his bed. A few minutes later the house- 
keeper, eii neglige^ entered the library. With 


DUMSTON^S BUBO LAE. 


95 


a cry of despair she clasped the burglar to 
her bosom. My son, my son ! Why are 
you here ? ” 

Durston was amazed. He had not known 
that his housekeeper had a history. 

Is this one of your boys ? ” he yelled at 

her. 

“ My only son,” she sobbed. I have not 
seen him for twenty years, but I recognized 
him at once. Is he a friend of yours, Mr. 
Durston ? ” 

Our bachelor knew not what to say. 
His housekeeper, as I have said, was an 
inheritance from his parents, and he had 
always been fond of her. She had taken 
good care of him all these years, and 
he hated to tell her that her son was a 
criminal. 

^Wes,” he shouted. “He dropped in to 
have a cigar with me. I knew you would 
like to see him. But he is obliged to go now. 
He wants to catch a train for Montreal. 
Kiss him farewell. He won’t be back for 
some time.” 


DURSTON'S BURGLAR. 


Thank you, sir,” murmured the burglar. 

You have a good heart.” 

A few minutes later Durston stood on the 
front steps of his residence and watched his 
housekeeper’s son as he hurried down the 
street. 

What shall I say to the policeman ? ” was 
the problem vexing him. 

You remember the mysterious item that 
appeared in the newspapers the next morn- 
ing. Durston explained his telephone mes- 
sage on the ground that he liad been suffering 
from nightmare. The above is the first pub- 
lic statement of the facts in the case. I hope 
Durston won’t get into a scrape by this nar- 
ration. As a good citizen he had no right to 
let the burglar escape. 


AN ICONOCLASTIC VOICE. 


rr^HE great trouble with John Stratlimore 
was that every time he said a word he 
broke something. You who have a normal 
vocalization cannot imagine how serious an 
affliction this was. Strathmore, early in life, 
realized that he was not like other men, 
so far as his voice was concerned, and 
’wisely refrained from making use of his 
conversational ability. Asa child he became 
convinced of his inherent tendency toward an 
iconoclastic career, and when he smashed his 
first doll by saying Gosh ” he knew that his 
voice contained a destructive quality that did 
not often pertain to the human organ of sound. 

As he grew older he became more and 
more worried about the strange tendency 
that resulted in so much miscellaneous havoc. 
He found, by repeated ‘experiments, that he 

97 


08 AW ICONOCLASTIC VOICE. 

could not make a remark, even in a wkisper, 
without cracking a vase, a pane of glass, or 
a watch crystal. He tried various styles of 
vocalization, and pitched his voice in many 
different keys ; the result was the same ; his 
enunciatory organs possessed a destructive 
quality that defied analysis and robbed many 
an unsuspicious pocket. 

As John grew toward manhood he became 
constantly more silent. Nobody, not .even 
his parents, suspected that the broken glass- 
ware that had pertained to his boyhood 
was due to a physical defect rather tlian to 
a mischievous spirit. When a window was 
broken or a goblet destroyed, it was confi- 
dently assumed by the elder Strathmores 
that ^^Jack” had been up to his old trick 
of throwing stones.” The fact was that eTohn 
Strathmore had never pegged a geologic 
remnant in his life, and he realized that he 
was fitted by nature to indulge in more de- 
structive fun than most boys. 

At the dinner table he seldom opened his 
lips. He feared that if he asked for the butter 


AN ICONOCLASTIC VOICE. 


90 


sometliing in tlie room would go to smash. 
He thus gained the reputation for morose- 
uess, and was looked upon as an unsociable 
being who had a great regard for his own 
superiority. For John was “smart.” At 
school his written examinations had always 
resulted in his honor. When, however, he 
was obliged to stand up and answer ques- 
tions, he either remained silent or gave vent 
to various grunts that were not at all satis- 
factory to his master. 

In a moment of despair he went to a phy- 
sician and told the man of science about his 
unique affliction. The doctor, who was an 
expert in diagnosis, asked our hero to test 
his voice. The result of the experiment was 
that various vials belonging to the office 
were rendered useless. 

“You have crackatory meningitis of the 
vocal chords,” remarked the doctor wisely. 
The fact was that he could not find in his 
experience any precedent for a case of this 
kind. However, he wrote a prescription 
and asked Strathmore for ten dollars. 


100 


AN ICONOCLASTIC VOICE. 


This medicine will soften your enuncia- 
tion/’ explained the specialist. You need 
a lon^ course of anti-iconoclastic treatment.” 

This was thoroughly satisfactory to the 
victim, He began to feel that he might yet 
go through life without breaking, surrepti- 
tiously, an unwonted amount of bric-a-brac. 
Strathmore returned to his boarding-house 
in high spirits. He had taken a dose of the 
medicine prescribed and began to think that 
his landlady’s dinner service was safe, even if 
he happened to feel loquacious. There was 
a new boarder present that evening. She 
was young and pretty and Strathmore lost 
his heart at once. Under tlie excitement of 
the moment he became more talkative 
tlian usual, and would liave left the table- 
in high spirits if he had not broken his 
finger-bowl by a sudden remark about the 
weather. He went to his room in a collapsed 
condition. He began to fear that the doc- 
tor had not done as much for his voice as he 
had hoped he would. 

Sucli Avas the situation for some weeks. 


AN IG0N0GLA8TIG VOIGE. 


101 


Strathmore took his medicine at intervals, 
but did not dare to let his tongue wag. He 
was afraid that the peculiar timhre of his 
voice would smasli his inamorata’s eye-glasses 
or make a rent in her soup plate. He en- 
dured awful agony when she looked at him, 
and he really feared that she considered him 
idiotic. 

Thus it was that months went by before 
Strathmore grew desperate enough to throw 
his scruples and his voice to the winds. One 
day he met the girl of his choice in the hall- 
way. Nobody was at hand and our hero 
could not resist the temptation before him. 
He placed his arm around her waist, and, 
l)ending down, whispered : “ I love you, my. 
darling.” 

He was soon convinced that his voice was 
up to its old tricks. His words had broken 
the girl all up. 


THREE STRANGE 
SUICIDES. 


When all the blandishments of life are gone, 
The coward sneaks to death, the brave live on. 


XT is a well-established fact tliat mid-siim- 
mer is pre-eminently the season of sui- 
cides. Statistics carefully gathered in this 
country and Europe pro^ve this, and a glance 
at the newspapers serves to convince the 
reader that in this case figures do not lie. 
It is really astonishing how mucb miscella- 
neous self-destruction is now going on. Even 
the old Romans, in the days when the empire 
had begun to collapse, were not more suicidal, 
as a community, than the Americans of this 
generation. This is a harsb statement, but, 
unfortunately, it is not an exaggeration. Too 

many of our countrymen do not consider 
102 


THREE STRANGE SUICIDES. 


103 


suicide a killing matter. They take tkeir 
lives witk a pagan nonchalance that may be 
classic but is not inspiring. A man who will 
kill himself on a hot day because his collar 
iiTitates his neck is not heroic. He should 
take olf his collar, not cut his throat. 

These reflections were called forth by 
three tragic tales that have come to my 
knowledge within the last few days. The 
first relates to a sensitive, brilliant, rather 
flighty young man, whose fate carries with it 
a warning. I know there is nothing you like 
better than a story with a moral. The 
youth in question earned a fair salary as a 
bank clerk in this city. For some years it 
had been his custom to go to a race track 
once every summer. For weeks before his 
annual indulgence in this dissipation he 
would hoard his money until a sufficient sum 
had been saved to insure him a day’s plea- 
sure without prejudice to his landlady. He 
was scrupulously honest and never ran into 
debt. 

As he was starting for Sheapshead Bay a 


104 


THREE STRANGE SUICIDES. 


week or more ago, an acquaintance, a fellow- 
clerk, handed him twenty dollars. 

Put this on Tony in the fourth race for 
me, old man. The odds are long and I have 
a good tip on the horse. He’s a sure win- 
ner.” 

Our hero promised to fulfill the commission 
but smiled mockingly at his colleague. He 
never took ^Oong shots” himself. At the 
track he was very successful. After the 
third race had been run he found himself one 
hundred dollars ahead. He hurried to the 
betting ring and plunged heavily on the fa- 
vorite for the next contest. He forgot all 
about his friend’s request. When, however, 
Tony came down the stretch an easy winner, 
the wretched youth recalled the promise he 
had made. The twenty dollars he had 
placed in a pocket by itself and he now 
found himself in a terrible predicament. 
The odds had been thirty to one against 
Ton}^ He owed his friend six hundred 
dollars. He had no way of paying the debt. 
If he returned to the city with the announce* 


THREE STRANGE SUICIDES. 


105 


ment that he had forgotten to make the bet 
he would be always under suspicion. 

A haggard, hopeless man passed through 
the gates and boarded a train for Brooklyn. 
On reaching that city he entered a drug 
store, wrote a note to his friend inclosing the 
twenty dollars, and then hastened toward 
the East Biver docks. His body was fished 
out of the water the next day. One of the 
saddest features of his fatal folly lies in the 
fact tliat Tony had never won a race before, 
and probably never will again. 

The suicide of Mrs. Marston, relict of the 
late John T. Marston, was also due to a lack 
of money. It was not, however, the outcome 
of a sudden impulse. For five years she had 
calmly contemplated the step she took last 
week. You remember Marston. He had 
been a successful merchant, and it was gen- 
erally believed that he had saved a million. 
He had lived luxuriously, and his wife had 
had her every wish gratified. When Mars- 
ton died, however, it was found that liis 
wealth was mythical. After his debts were 


106 


THREE STRANGE SUICIDES. 


paid there was nothing left for his wife but 
his life insurance, a paltry ten thousand dol- 
lars. Mrs. Mars ton, who was a good deal of 
a philosopher, argued tliat the interest on this 
sum Avould be woefully insufficient for her 
rather extravagant needs. She was a clever 
woman, and might have done something to 
support herself, but she had lived so long an 
existence of leisure that the idea of work 
was extremely distasteful to her. She might 
have married again, perhaps, ‘had it not been 
for her distrust of men. The fact that her 
husband had not been the millionaire she 
thought him had made her cynical. 

After going over the ground very carefully 
for some weeks Mrs. Marston reached this 
decision : She possessed $10,000 ; she would 
divide it into five equal parts, thus obtaining 
$2000 a year for one luxurious lustrum, and 
when she had spent the entire amount she 
would abandon life by the pleasantest method 
known to science. 

She carried out this programme to the let- 
ter. She lived well on $2000 a year, and no- 


THREE STRANGE SUICIDES. 


107 


body suspected that she had selected the 
date of her death. She was looked upon by 
her friends as a cheerful, witty, intellectual 
woman, who enjoyed life in a reasonable way. 
For a year previous to her suicide she had 
made a close study of toxicology. She be- 
came wonderfully well-informed in this branch 
of science, and I really believe she could have 
poisoned her acquaintances with the skill of 
a Borgia. She refrained, however, from try- 
ing her ’prentice hand on those about her, 
and waited for a victim until she had drawn 
the last dollar of her husband’s insurance 
money from the bank. Then she calmly took 
a dose of prussic acid and flitted away to 
that land where an annual income of some 
size is not essential to happiness. 

But the most remarkable suicide of the 
year was that of Algernon T. Snooks. It is 
not generally known that he forced himself 
out of this queer world, but the truth is that 
he died of arsenic, administered by his own 
famous hand. I say famous hand,” because 
it penned that immortal lyric, The Battle of 


108 


THREE STRANGE SUICIDES. 


the Dwarfs.” If it had never written poetry 
it wonld never have handled poison. 

You are astonished at this assertion. You 
have looked upon Snooks as a great genius, 
and have admired the only poem he ever 
wrote. You have wondered why he never 
followed up his first success, and why he 
made no defense against the cliarge of pla- 
giarism brought against the second poem 
bearing his name. A tragedy lies behind all 
this. I will tell you what I know of it. 

Snooks, as you remember, was a common- 
place little man who had made a fortune in 
groceries. He had begun life as an errand 
boy in the store where his financial success 
was won, and his active, exacting existence 
had given him no opportunity for cultivating 
his mind. He had read a few books and had 
seen perhaps a dozen good plays, but he 
knew much more about sugar than about 
Socrates, and a barrel of flour was more sig- 
nificant to him than a flower of rhetoric. 

Nevertheless, when Snooks was forty years 
old he wrote a great poem. He never kneAV 


THREE STRANGE SUICIDES. 


109 


just how he did it. He was sitting at his 
desk in the store about midnight, not many 
months ago, casting up accounts. Suddenly 
his pen, deserting the bookkeeper’s figures, 
began to write figures of speech. Snooks 
was astonished, but boldly abandoned him- 
self to the strange impulse besetting him. 
After a weird hour had passed, he had pro- 
duced a poetic gem entitled The Battle of the 
Dwarfs.” Whether he had been hypnotized 
or had been insjiired by the wandering spirit 
of some bard, he never knew. With the pru- 
dence of a business man he signed his name 
to his first literary output and locked the 
poem in his desk. The next day he sent it 
to a magazine. You remember the sensation 
it created. It was copied all over this coun- 
try and England, was translated into French, 
German, and Italian, and made the name of 
Algernon T. Snooks known in every literary 
center of the civilized world. “ The Learned 
Blacksmith ” was never so widely recognized 
as the Grocer Poet.” 

Snooks should have been happy, you 


110 


IHREE STRANGE SUICIDES. 


tliink. Well, lie wasn’t. You see tlie re- 
sponsibilities of his exalted position in the 
literary world weighed upon him with a 
pressure that turned his hair Avhite. He was 
constantly in receipt of letters from promi- 
nent publishers asking for some of his poems. 
He tried to Avrite verse again, but — perhaps 
because he was a successful grocer — he could 
not get the measure right. He bought a 
Complete Rhymester ” and studied trochees, 
dactyls, and spondees until his brain Avhirled. 
His efforts Avere all in vain. The dhdne 
afflatus that had struck him that fatal mid- 
night never again inspired his lagging pen. 

As time Avent on his difficulties increased. 
He was elected a member of several literary 
clubs and was asked by certain provincial so- 
cieties to deliver lectures on the future of 
American poetry. He neglected his business 
in order to study letters and alloAved his Avhite 
hair to floAv long behind. Finally, the pres- 
sure upon him became so great that he found 
it absolutely essential to his reputation to 
publish another poem. For six Aveeks he 


THREE STRANGE SUICIDES. 


Ill 


tried lio produce sometliing approximately 
worthy of his first effort. Then, in despair, 
he decided to steal from some neglected 
genius a poem, forceful, but forgotten. 

You know the result. Snooks was con- 
victed of plagiarism one week and his death 
was announced the next. Like the poor 
little frog in the fable, he exploded in the 
effort to become as big as an ox. In these 
days of hypnotism, spiritualism, and other 
queer influences, it is well to bear in mind 
the fate of Algernon T. Snooks and not over- 
estimate one’s individual resources. 


A MISUNDERSTOOD 
WOMAN. 


r I IHE separation of Eugene Mortimer and 
his wife was a surprise to their friends. 
I am the only person in the city who knows 
the cause of their domestic tragedy, and the 
time has come to let the public hear the 
story — for it embodies a valuable lesson. 
You have seen Mortimer, of course. He is 
one of the most prominent of our younger 
lawyers, and has taken quite an active part in 
politics. He is a tall, thin, nervous man, who 
is always rubbing his hands across his face — 
like a clock. His mentality is more brilliant 
than well-balanced. In fact, he has never 
thoroughly repaired the intellectual ravages 
of a college education. 

Mrs. Mortimer is not a genius. She loves 

Mortimer, and, up to a short time ago, had 
112 


A MISUNDERSTOOD WOMAN 113 

made him a good wife. She acted as a kind 
of sedative upon him, and lie was generally 
liappy in her company. By an unfortunate 
cliance she read a book in which the author 
depicted tlie awful results which follow intel- 
lectual divergences between husband and 
wife. He argued that a woman should make 
an effort to keep up with the mental pro- 
gress of her husband. If she did not, when 
he was forty and she was thirty-five he 
would be sure to be bored by her lack of 
sympathy with his ambitions and achieve- 
ments. Mrs. Mortimer was scared. She 
wished to retain Eugene’s love to the end of 
life, and determined to keep up to his intel- 
lectual plane if possible. She began her 
studies by reading the debates on the McKin- 
ley tariff bill. Mortimer, she knew, was in- 
tensely interested in political economy. 

At dinner one night, recently, she observed 
that he looked tired. She determined to 
surprise and interest him at the same time. 

Do you think the existing duty on sugar 
should be reduced, my dear ? ” she asked. 


114 


A MisfirjvD^nsrooD womajv. 


Mortimer looked at her in astonishment. 

^^Pass me the butter,” he said savagely. 
There was silence for a moment. 

“ What is jute bagging, Eugene ? ” she 
asked modestly. 

I don’t know.” 

Do you think the duty on it should be 
increased ? ” 

No.” 

Mrs. Mortimer was discouraged. Her hus- 
band looked more fatigued than ever. 

Do you believe in free raw material, dar- 
ling?” 

What damned nonsense ! ” exclaimed 
Mortimer, leaving the table and retiring to 
his library. 

Mrs. Mortimer is now with her mother in 
Boston. I am inclined to think that she 
and Eugene may yet become reconciled. 


A HAUNTED MAN. 


HERE was sometliiiig very mysterious 



about the fate of Walter Leonard. 
There were no seeds of insanity in his family, 
and he had never been at all dissipated; 
neither was he what they called a nervous 
man. Rather phlegmatic in temperament, he 
had had the reputation in college of being 
the coolest athlete that ever faced a great 
baseball or boating crisis. 

As a lawyer he was calm, self-possessed, 
and impressive before a jury. He never lost 
his temper when opposing counsel attempted 
to annoy him. In fact, he was called The 
Iceberg ” by his associates at the bar. 

His domestic life was happy. He had a 
congenial wife and two pretty children. As 
he had inherited a fortune there was no visi- 
ble cloud on his horizon. Respected by men. 


115 


116 


A HAUNTED MAN. 


beloved by his family, and successful in his 
profession, he seemed a man to be envied. 

One day Leonard entered his house just 
before dinner, looking more tired than usual. 
His wife met him in the hall, kissed him, and 
said : 

There was a man here to see you a few 
moments ago. He did not leave his name, 
but said he would return.” 

Leonard’s face had an anxious expression 
as he asked : 

“ Was he a tall man with a dark mus- 
tache ? ” 

Yes.” 

Nothing more was said on the subject at 
that time, but as the days went by Mrs. 
Leonard noticed a great change in her hus- 
band. He was no longer cheerful and affec- 
tionate. He seemed to be oppressed by some 
secret sorrow. He seldom played with the 
children, and was taciturn at all times. 

‘^That man was here again to-day,” re- 
marked Mrs. Leonard to her silent spouse 
one evening at dinner. 


A HAUNTED MAN. 


117 


“ What man ? ” he asked, looking np ner- 
vously. 

“ Tlie tall, dark man who failed to find 
you here about a week ago.” 

And he refused to leave his name ? ” 

^Wes.” 

After dinner Leonard sat in his library 
abstractedly smoking a cigar. Mrs. Leonard 
drew a chair toward him and took his hand 
in hers. 

“What is the matter, Walter? There is 
something wrong with you. Surely I have 
the right to know your troubles. Tell me 
what makes you so blue.” 

“ I don’t know,” he answered, looking at 
her with something of his old, frank manner. 

“ What do you mean ? You are evading 
me.” 

“ ISTo. I told you the truth. So far as I 
know there is nothing in the world to give 
me cause for worry. I acknowledge, how- 
ever, that I am terribly depressed.” 

“ Has that man anything to do with your 
present state of mind ? ” Tliere w’^as an 


118 


A BAXINTED MAN. 


anxious eclio in her voice that her husband 
seemed to catch. He kissed her on the fore- 
head, and drew her nearer to him. 

Again I must make answer that I don’t 
know.” 

How very strange. I don’t understand.” 

“ Neither do I. That man has been pur- 
suing me for ten days. Wherever I go I 
hear of him. When I reach my office in the 
morning, I am told that a tall man with a 
dark mustache has called on me and that he 
refused to leave his name or state his busi- 
ness. He never waits for me, but politely 
remarks that he will come in again later. 
My clerks are beginning to look upon him 
as a permanent practical joke. One of them 
followed him once, but lost him in the crowd 
on Broadway. At the restaurant where I 
generally get my luncheon I have heard of 
him several times. He is always asking for 
me, but is never willing to await my coming. 
The queer paid of it is tliat he is constantly 
in my mind. I dream of him at nig] it. I 
would recognize him anywliere. His face is 


A HAUNTED MAN 


119 


as familiar to me as yours, and yet I know 
tliat I have never seen him.” 

Leonard rose in evident agitation, and 
lighted a fresh cigar. When he had reseated 
himself his wife said : 

You won’t believe me, Walter, I know 
right well, but the truth is that you are over- 
worked, and that you smoke too much. It 
may be that you have offended this man in 
some way, and . that he is trying to annoy 
you. Now, I want you to make me a prom- 
ise. Go to the doctor’s with me to-morrow 
morning, and if he advises you to take a 
vacation we’ll go up to the mountains for a 
few days. What do you say ? ” 

Nonsense. There is nothing the matter 
with me, and I can’t get away just now. 
Perhaps, however, I do smoke too much. 
I’ll cut myself down to three cigars a day 
for a while, and see if your diagnosis is 
correct.” 

Thus the matter rested for a week more. 
The mysterious man had called twice at the 
house, but on both occasions Mrs. Leonard 


120 


A HAUNTED MAN. 


had been away from home. She said nothing 
to her husband about the dark man’s persist- 
ency, but she observed by Leonard’s manner 
that he was still brooding over the being who 
was always on his track. Finally he became 
so nervous that he could neither work nor 
sleep. Without much further persuasion 
from his wife he agreed to see their family 
physician. The result was very much as she 
had predicted. 

You must quit work at once, Leonard,” 
said the doctor. ^Wou are on the verge of 
nervous prostration. Get out of the city to- 
day and don’t come back for a month. Never 
mind all that,” he continued, as Leonard 
began to plead business engagements. 
‘Won’ll have to sacrifice your profession 
for your health for the next few weeks. 
You have been reversing the oj)eration alto- 
gether too long.” 

And so they went with the children that 
day to the Catskills. At first Leonard im- 
proved rapidly. The mountain air seemed 
to have upon him a tonic effect, and quieted 


A IIAVNTED MAN. 


121 


his craving for tobacco. He climbed, drove, 
played tennis, romped with the children, 
and became, almost at a bound, his old self, 
cheerful, full of vitality, but always dignified, 
and to strangers rather unapproachable. He 
slept well, and his wife began to believe that 
the danger of a nervous collapse on his part 
was at an end. 

One evening Leonard and his wife were 
seated upon the piazza of the hotel, watching 
the moonlit valley of the Hudson. It was 
an enchanting scene. The famous river 
looked like a silvery serpent writhing to- 
ward the sea. The trees cast long shadows 
across the well-tilled fields, and the verdure 
of early summer trembled in the caress of a 
gentle breeze. The vastness of the outlook 
brought to the spirit the peace that the sea 
in its infinity bestows. Suddenly Leonard 
remarked : 

I wonder what that fellow wanted.” 

His wife made no reply.' She was an- 
noyed at this return to what had become 
between them a forbidden subject. 


122 


A HAUNTED MAN. 


“ I tliink I should have put a detective on 
. his track,” continued Leonard, but I feared 
tlie affair would thus get into the news- 
papers. But I am very curious about the 
man.” Then, lowering his voice, he said, I 
dreamed of him again last night.” 

^^Hush, Walter. Don’t let your mind 
dwell on that crank. Perhaps it was some 
friend of yours who is fond of practical 
joking.” 

Leonard made no further reference to the 
subject, and later in the evening appeared to 
have forgotten all about tlie tall man with 
the dark mustache. Two days passed and 
his wife heard no more from him regarding 
his mysterious visitor. Nevertheless, she 
felt instinctively that her husband was not 
improving as rapidly as he had at first. He 
had returned to his old habit of over-indul- 
gence in tobacco, in spite of her constant pro- 
test against the offending cigars. He gave 
up his mountain climbing and spent a good 
deal of time in moody reverie. He was rest- 
less at night, and once or twice muttered 


A HAUNTED MAN. 


123 


something in his sleep about telling “the 
man to w^it.” 

One evening at supper Leonard and his 
wife were seated in the deserted dining-room 
after ^ long drive through the forest. The 
lawyer seemed more cheerful than usual, and 
actually laughed outright at a remark of his 
wife, more witty than a woman often makes. 
Just at that moment one of the waiters ap- 
proached them and said : 

“ There’s a gentleman on the piazza who 
wishes to see you, Mr. Leonard. He has 
been waiting nearly an hour.” 

Mrs. Leonard turned pale and her husband 
changed color. 

“ Did he give you a card or his name ? ” 
he asked huskily. 

“ No, sir.” 

“ He’s a tall, dark man, you say ? ” 

The waiter looked surprised for an instant, 
and then said “ Yes, sir.” 

Without more ado Leonard hastened 
toward the piazza, and his wife followed 
him. There was no one in sight when they 


124 


A HALTED MAN. 


readied the doorway. Leonard stood still for 
a moment, looking about him in a dazed way. 
Then he stepped to the office desk and asked 
the clerk if he knew anything about a man 
who had been awaiting him. 

^ Yes, Mr. Leonard. He stood in the door- 
way there only a moment ago. I’ll send a 
boy in search of him.” 

No trace of the mysterious caller could be 
found. He had disappeared as suddenly and 
completely as a drop of rain when it strikes 
the surface of a pond. That evening Leon- 
ard was taken to bed suffering from a high 
fever. Toward midnight he became wildly 
delirious, and the hotel physician was recalled. 
He employed heroic treatment and toward 
sunrise the patient had grown more quiet. 
At four o’clock the doctor retired and Mrs. 
Leonard lay down upon the sofa for a short 
nap. When she awoke a half hour later, 
she looked toward the bed. It was empty. 
With a cry of despair she sprang up and 
rushed into the hall. 

It was not until late in the afternoon that 


A HAUNTED MAN. 


125 


Leonard was found. He w'as wandering in 
night attire upon a mountain side ten miles 
from the hotel. His face was haggard, and 
in his eyes was the glare of insanity. 

“ I miLst find him,” he cried, rushing madly 
away from the rescuing party. In his weak- 
ened condition he could only stumble forward 
for a short distance. They carried him away 
as gently as his wild struggles would permit 
them to, and two hours later he was in charge 
of a nurse and physician. He is now in an 
asylum, hopelessly insane. It was not over- 
work, nor tobacco, nor the man Avith the 
dark mustache that dethroned his reason 
— it was the combined influence of the three. 


AN INSIGNIFICANT MAN. 


OME years ago a girl was born dumb in 



^ a New Jersey town. She lived with- 
out speaking for fifteen years and then died 
from an attack of hysterical laughter. It 
may be argued that her peculiar death was 
due to the fact that she lived in New Jersey, 
but to the broad-minded man her experience 
has more than a local significance. He who 
watches in silence the absurdities of human 
life as they present themselves in a great city, 
or as they are illustrated in the newspapers, 
finds himself, according to his temperament, 
either a Democritus or an Heraclitus. He 
may die either of laughter or of tears. 

‘‘Why do you not tell us stories of men 
known to fame ? ” wrote a friend to me a 
few days ago. “ History, not fiction, is what 
your readers crave.” 


126 


AN iNStONlFWANT MAN 


12Y 


My correspondent takes a very narrow 
view of a writer’s province. He would 
never kave died of laughter in a ISTew Jersey 
town. Can he not grasp the fact that there 

is as much human nature in Mr. , of 

Street and Avenue,” as in Chauncey 

M. Depew or James G. Blaine ? The average 
man as an exponent of contemporaiy life is 
of more value than he who is world-re- 
nowned. Exceptional men are interesting; 
average men are of vital signihcance. 

There is not a passenger in this car,” re- 
marked a well-known journalist to me a few 
days ago on an elevated train, who could 
not, if cleverly ^ pumped,’ give the public a 
story from real life that would be both 
entertaining and suggestive.” 

I looked about me, and my eyes finally 
rested upon a quiet, inconsequential little man 
who was reading a newspaper in the opposite 
seat. He had as uninteresting a face as you 
could find in a day’s walk, and he looked as 
tliough he had never done anything but 
eat, sleep, and talk about the weather. I 


128 


AN INSIONIFICANT MAN 


picked him out as a good subject for an 
experiment. 

I defy you to obtain from that common- 
place man over there an anecdote from his 
own life possessing the slightest element of 
amusement or instruction.” 

The journalist smiled, and whispered his 
acceptance of my challenge. When oui* vic- 
tim left the train we followed him. 

I beg your pardon,” said my friend, as he 
joined the little man, but I wish you would 
look at my card here and give me a mo- 
ment’s conversation.” 

He of the insignificant face looked up in 
astonishment, glanced at the card, seemed to 
recognize the name thereon, and smiled 
courteously. 

“ I am at your service, sir.” 

Thank you. My intrusion is due to a 
conversation with my friend here regarding a 
proposition, laid do^vn by me, that any passen- 
ger in the train we have just left, could, if so 
disposed, tell a story from his own experience 
that would be of interest to the public at 


AI{ IKSIGmFICANT MAN. 


129 


large. Hoping that you would be willing to 
help me prove my point I have taken this un- 
ceremonious mode of gaining you as an ally. 
Could you not, in a few words, tell us the 
most exciting incident in your life ? ” 

A gleam of malicious merriment shot from 
the eyes of the little man. He stepped back 
a few paces and handled his cane nervously. 

Perhaps the most startling incident in 
my career occurred a few days ago,” he said 
slowly. “ I knocked down a census enumera- 
tor for asking me impudent questions.” 

Then he turned his back and walked down 
the street. 

I — I knew he had in him at least one 
good story,” muttered my journalistic friend 
in a dazed way, as he watched his victim dis- 
appearing in the crowd. 


A MODERN NARGISSDS. 


LD VERACITY,” as lie is affection- 



ately called, is one of the talkative 
menabers of an uptown club. He is full 
of reminiscences — if nothing else. A few 
nights ago he remarked to a few choice 
spirits seated near him : 

“ Did yon ever hear about the suicide of 
Dick Robertson, boys ? ” 

“ No,” chorused the crowd 
“ W ell, Dick was a great fellow. He was 
considered the handsomest man in New 
York thirty-five years ago. I have never 
seen his equal for physical beauty. He was 
a little above medium height, as graceful as 
a poem by Aldrich, and as modest as a but- 
terfiy in winter. His face was almost super- 
naturally impressive. I cannot do justice to 
it in words, but when I wish to ease my 


130 


A MODERN NARC188TI8, 


131 


sestlietic cravings I call up from a closet in 
my memory tlie picture of Dick Dobei*tson. 
He was, indeed, a joy forever.” 

The old man fell into a retrospective si- 
lence, and no one felt like disturbing him. 
Finally Toodles, who is not impressionable, 
remarked : 

“ And you say this stunning fellah killed 
himself ? ” 

Yes. You see he was very sensitive, and 
tlie admiration he received made him morbid. 
Wherever he went, he was gazed at as though 
he were a being from another world. I know 
for a fact that people used to come to 
New York from the country just to catch a 
glimpse of Dick Eobertson. His mail was 
enormous. He received at least fifty letters 
every day from women he had charmed. 
After a while he began to shun society. He 
remained at home, neglected his affairs, and 
received only a few chosen friends. He 
complained to them bitterly that his beauty 
had become a curse to him. We used to try 
to cheer him with the hope that as he ap- 


132 


A MODERN NARCmsm 


proached middle age lie might become less 
ornamental. Our efforts to overcome his 
melancholia were futile. He grew constantly 
more desperate, for even his incessant con- 
finement and loAV spirits did not mar his 
beauty in the least. One day he shot himself 
dead. He left a note saying that he had 
gone to “ a land where a handsome man is 
not looked upon as a dime museum freak ? ” 
“ Old Veracity was lying again,” whisjiered 
Toodles to me as we left the club. 

How do you know ? ” 

Wliy, they didn’t have dime museums 
thirty -five years ago, and the word ^ freak ’ 
was unknown.” 

Clever fellow, that Toodles ! 


TWO BROWNS. 


rriHERE are two Jolin T. Browns among 
tlie members of a famous New York 
club. Under most circumstances this fact 
would not have much significance ; but as 
these men happen to detest each othfer, va- 
rious peculiar complications have arisen 
since they joined the club several years ago. 
John T. Brown, the elder, is a successful bus- 
iness man, somewhat Gradgrindish in his 
mental ^ tendencies. John T. Brown, the 
younger, is a poet and novelist, who 
could not tell a bill of lading from a pro- 
tested draft. They are both bachelors. 

The commercial Brown has always been 
outspoken in his denunciation of literary 
men. He considers the highest achievement 
of the pen the production of a perfect busi- 
ness letter. Brown, the author, on the other 


133 


134 


TWO BUOWWS. 


hand, speaks sarcastically about men who de- 
vote their lives to money getting, and know 
nothing of the pleasures of the imagination. 
Brown, the author, is often posted for non- 
payment of dues. Brown, the merchant, 
never is. 

The mutual friends of these hostile 
Browns have attempted to persuade one or 
the other of them to add an e ” to his sur- 
name, in the hope that the antagonism be- 
tween the two men would be lessened if 
their names were not exactly alike. Brown, 
the merchant, refused to take this step, as he 
considered the final e ” an affectation. 
Brown, the poet, had made his reputation 
without the aid of the vowel, and felt that 
he could not afford to risk his literary fame 
by changing his signature. They advanced 
respectively the same line of argument when 
it was proposed that one of them should 
part his name in the middle. 

Thus the matter stood when these uncom- 
promising rivals met a handsome and wealthy 
widow at a dinner party one evening, and 


TWO BROWNS. 


135 


fell in love witli her. Brown, the elder, was 
angered at the brilliancy of the author’s con- 
versation, but when he reached home he be- 
gan to reflect that his position as a prosper- 
ous business man would be more apt to ap- 
jDeal to a sensible widow than the Bohe- 
niianism of Brown, the writer. Neverthe- 
less, he realized that all women admire 
a ‘man who can give a literary flavor to 
his discourse, so the following day he 
purchased a book of poems and committed 
several verses to memory. Then he de- 
cided to write a flowery proposal of mar- 
ria«:e to the widow. He would show her 
that he was more versatile than the world 
believed. 

John T. Brown, the author, reached a very 
different conclusion regarding his best mode 
of procedure. Pie knew that his rival was 
dangerous in that he possessed a flourishing 
business and a large bank account. Widows, 
he argued, are apt to prefer check books to 
books of , verse. Thereupon he resolved to 
send her a proposal worded in such a way 


136 


TWO BBOWNS. 


that she would at once recognize his business 
ability. 

One day the widow received two notes, 
each of them signed “John T. Brown.” 
The one penned by the merchant ran as 
follows : 

Dear Madam : 

Long ago in a fair garden of the east a lonely 
man was made happy by a gift from heaven. 
Since those remote days — about 6000 years ago, 
I believe, according to recent calculations — the 
companionsliip of a wife has been considered the 
richest treasure the world liolds. To one who 
has wandered alone through this vale of tears, 
the thought of sharing with you the remainder 
of existence comes with intoxicating force. As 
the poet says : 

O woman ! lovely woman ! nature made thee 

To temper man ; we had been brutes without you. 

Angels are painted fair to look like you; 

There’s in you all that we believe of heaven, 

Amazing brightness, purity, and truth, 

Eternal joy and everlasting love. 

Need I say more, my dear madam ? I offer 
you my hand and heart in the joyous hope that 


TWO BROWNS. 


137 


my Eden may soon be glorified by the fairest 
Eve that ever walked tlie dusty paths of earth. 

The note sent by Brown the author, was 
worded thus : 

Dear Madam : 

Hereby please accept from me an* offer of 
marriage. Hoping to “ hear favorably from you 
at your earliest convenience, I remain, etc. 

The widow has married again, but her 
name is not Mrs. John T. Brotvn. There 
Avas not enough literature in the mei'chant’s 
note to please her, and there was too much 
business in the author’s. She does not know 
to this day, however, that her unsuccessful 
lovers changed skins when they reached the 


crisis. 


THE DRUMMER. 


EING a wanderer on tlie face of tlie 



eartli — a rolling stone tliat gatlieretli 
not tlie fatted calf — I liave often come into 
close contact with drummers — called with 
more courtesy commercial travelers. I doubt 
if there is in the w^orld a more interesting 
class than these peripatetic purveyors. There 
are, of course, good drummers and bad drum- 
mers, drummers who drink and drummers 
who pray, drummers who read and drummers 
who don’t; but there are certain general 
characteristics that pertain to them all. 

The drummer who has had even a very 
short career on the road is of necessity 
worldly wise. He sees many men and cities 
and quickly learns a vast deal of useful 
knowledge regarding human nature. As a 
general thing he grows pessimistic and finds 


THE DRUMMER. 


139 


that railroad restaurant fare tends to sour 
the milk of human kindness. Nevertheless, 
I have seen a drummer quiet a baby in a 
sleeping car when the weary mother had 
shown herself unequal to the task. 

My first acquaintance with a ^‘traveling 
man” led me into a scrape. I met him 
some years ago in a smoking car, and, 
much to my surprise, he began to talk of 
Spencer, Huxley, and Darwin, and display an 
accurate knowdedge of the writings of the 
great theologians. He had read Bishop 
Butler, Paley, Dr. McCosh, and the late 
lamented Newman. He was well equipped 
to discuss the great question of Religion ver- 
sus Science. I found by inquiry that he was 
selling a drug called Anti-Nicotine, a prep- 
aration that claimed to overcome the evil 
effects of over-indulgence in tobacco. His 
mental cultivation made this admission a 
kind of reductio ad ahsurdmn. During the 
course of our conversation he advised me 
to accompany him to a certain hotel in a city 
we were approaching, on the ground that he 


140 


THE DRUMMER. 


was well acquainted witli tlie projDrietor and 
could guarantee for us attentive service. 

I accepted liis advice, and as we approached 
the desk stepped in front of him to register. 
The clerk had recognized my companion as a 
drummer. After I had inscribed my name 
and address the clerk said to me : 

Will you have a samjde room ? ” 

I looked at him in astonishment. 

A sample room ? ” I remarked. What 
do you mean ? If it is a room with ^vhisky 
and cigars adjoining my chamber, and there 
is no extra charge connected therewith, you 
may give me a sample room.” 

The clerk’s face displayed amazement, 
while my drummer laughed heartily. I 
learned then and there that a drummer ^vho 
carries a large amount of baggage requires 
an extra room at a hotel in which to display 
to tradesmen samples of the goods he sells. 
I have not been astonished since then when 
a boy, loafing about the entrance of an inn, 
cries out to me : “ Carry your samples, sir ? ” 


THE DRUMMER. 


141 


Much traveliug has given me the cut of a 
drummer. 

The following evening I was astonished to 
find that my commercial friend, who had 
studied the most tremendous problems of the 
soul, was a hard drinker. The proprietor of 
the hotel met me in the lobby about eight 
o’clock and remarked : 

“ Your friend there, who is selling Anti- 
Nicotine, is in the barroom with a drummer 
who is peddling cigars. The Anti-Nicotine 
man has smoked and drunk too much to-day. 
If he should add an Anti-Alcohol medYine 
to his stock I fear he would be ruiued.” 

I entered the barroom just in time to liear 
my drummer say, in a voice that was :hick 
and unsteady : 

^^Now, old man. I’ll tell you what I’ll do. 
I’ll go up to my room and get a dozen bottles 
of Anti-Nicotine for you, if you’ll give me a 
box of your best cigars.” 

Since that time I’ve met drummers of all 
kinds. On the whole, I think there has been 


142 


THE DRUMMER. 


a marked improvement in tkeir habits in the 
last few years. The competition in commer- 
cial life has grown so sharp that the old- 
fashioned traveling man who played poker on 
the cars and spent his evenings close to a 
whisky bottle has been obliged either to re- 
vise his methods or give np his place to 
steadier men. Of course, the influences sur- 
rounding a life “ on the road ” are not elevat- 
ing. Sleeping cars and hotels offer few 
chances for social intercourse of a desirable 
nature. The drummer must be, of necessity, 
a lonely man. He may have a few business 
acquaintances in every city, but there are 
hours and days when he is obliged to de- 
pend upon strangers for contact with his 
kind. The result is that he gets into the habit 
of adapting himself to the customs of the 
men he meets : and no one who has traveled 
Avidely will deny that a sociable tendency of 
this kind is full of peril. 

Not long ago I met a drummer who had 
been on the road for four months. He Avas 
depressed and homesick, but did not expect 


THE mXIMMEn. 


143 


to see Ills wife and cliildren for two inoutlis 
more. 

Wliat do you do when you get down- 
hearted ? ” I asked. 

Smoke. If it wasn’t for cigars, I should 
go crazy.” 

Do you never drink ? ” 

“Not a drop. It woidd be my ruination.” 

His clear eyes and brilliant complexion 
proved that he had never toyed with the 
paint when it is red. 

Another drummer, who had only one bad 
habit, I ran across one Sunday evening not 
many weeks ago in a W estern city. I offered 
him a cigar. He refused it. “ Will you go 
and have a nip then ? ” “ No, I indulge in 

nothing stronger than water.” 

“ Here,” thought I to myself, “ I have cap- 
tured the perfect drummer. I must get his 
autograph.” 

“ I have only one bad habit,” he remarked. 
“ I buy a lottery ticket once a month. My 
indulgence in this dissipation costs me 
$12.00 a year. By the way, I have not pur- 


144 


THE DRUMMEn. 


chased a ticket for the next drawing. Come 
in here a moment.” 

We were passing a large hotel. 

“ Blit it’s Sunday night,” I suggested. 
“ You can’t get a lottery ticket noAV.” 

I was mistaken. He walked boldly to the 
book-stand, asked for a “ winner,” received 
an imposing looking coupon, paid his dollar, 
and Avalked out. 

Surely,” I thought, “ 'New York may have 
some evil customs, but it does not sell lottery 
tickets in public on Sunday night.” 


CONRAD HIMMEL’S FALL. 



HE rise and fall of Conrad Himmel 


lias never attracted as widespread at- 
tention as tlie romantic career of Bismarck, 
tliougli Conrad’s downfall took place about 
tlie same time as that of tlie German Ckan- 
cellor. It may be that because Conrad kept 
a saloon on Greenwich Street, 'New York, and 
did not know a modus vivendi from a status 
quo^ his fate has not created as much excite- 
ment as resulted from the forced retirement 
of a man who founded an empire. How- 
ever, there is as valuable a lesson to be learned 
from Himmel’s overthrow as from Bismarck’s. 

Conrad was the only son of German peas- 
ants who came to this country about twenty- 
five years ago. The elder TIimmel opened a 
beer saloon on the West Side, and, as time 
went by, prospered financially. He sold 


145 


i46 CONRAD HIMMEDS FALL. 

malt drinks at a net profit of four hundred 
per cent, and kept on good terms Avitli tlie 
police. He brought up his son ^Yith gi*eat 
care and cultivated in him a high ambition. 
He found in Conrad a nature susceptible to 
paternal guidance and alive to the vast pos- 
sibilities pertaining to a beer-dispensing ca- 
reer in a thirsty neighborhood. 

When the elder Himmels had passed away, 
Conrad found himself in possession of a 
handsome bank account and a flourishing 
business. “ He who drinks beer thinks 
beer,” says Jean Paul. He who sells beer, 
however, thinks about his growing surplus 
and smiles. Conrad Himmel was a happy 
man, and his customers found him one of the 
most genial proprietors who ever stood be- 
hind a bar. To see him in his shirt-sleeves 
drawing the foaming extract at night was an 
experience long to be remembered. He 
looked like Gambrinus in his youth. The 
saloon, under the influence of Conrad’s popu- 
larity, increased its clientele ; and if spirits 
return to earth, the elder Himmel must have 


CONRAD niMMEVS FALL. 


147 


taken pleasure in tlie fruits borne by tlie 
education lie bad given bis son. 

Conrad married a pretty little German 
girl, wbo bore bim five cbildren. Slie loved 
liini well, and as tbe years passed tbe Him- 
mels became famous in tbe neighborhood for 
the charm of their domestic life. Contented, 
good-natured, prosperous, beloved by their 
children, Conrad and his wife were envied 
by all who knew them- — for there is a vast 
amount of misery in the vicinity of Green- 
wich Street. 

It was not until late last fall that a cloud 
came over the Himmel household. Mrs. 
Himmel and the older children felt its in- 
fluence but could not divine its origin nor 
detect its character. The saloon was as 
flourishing as ever, the babies were well^ 
there was no apparent disaster impending : 
but still they all recognized the presence of 
a mysterious something that depressed their 
spirits. 

Perhaps a change in Conrad’s habits and 
manner had something to do with all this. 


148 


CONRAD HUniEVS FALL. 


He looked less cheerful than of old. His 
eyes did not sparkle with their former bril- 
liancy. His cheeks had lost their ruddy hue. 
His wife asked him if he was sick, but he 
laughed with his usual heartiness and ate his 
dinner with so much enthusiasm that her 
anxiety was allayed. Nevertheless there was 
something queer about him. He spent more 
time away from the saloon than had been his 
wont. He was especially liable to be absent 
in the evening and the brunt of the beer 
peddling fell upon his assistant. 

As the winter went by the Himmels grew 
a good deal more worried about Conrad. In 
the bosom of his family he was distraught 
and at times rather ugly. At meals he had 
begotten the habit of drumming on the table 
in a most annoying manner. He would 
pound away for a moment, then glance at his 
wife inquiringly and smile Jo^^ously. When 
asked what he was doing he would look 
sheepish and nervously apply himself to his 
food. 

Mrs. Hiinmel was not an excitable woman. 


CONRAD B1MMEV8 NALL. 149 

In triitli slie was rather phlegmatic in tem- 
perament, and for a long time her husband’s 
increasing oddity annoyed her but gave her 
no serious alarm. . She argued that he had 
done a great deal of hard work and that his 
disinclination to pass all of his evenings in 
the saloon was perfectly natural. As for the 
table-drumming and his self-absorption, they 
did not appear to be very significant phe- 
nomena. 

But there came a time when Mrs. Himmel 
could not blind herself to the fact that her 
husband was in a condition deserving of 
close attention. He had become a victim of 
insomnia, and often spent the entire night 
walking up and down the room, muttering to 
himself ; and now and then humming a snatch 
of song and beating time with his arm. The 
poor little woman would lie in bed and weep 
as she watched her afflicted Conrad, and 
\vondered what had driven him into such a 
feverish state. 

Finally the good wife decided to consult a 
famous specialist in nervous disorders. She 


150 


CONRAD IIIMMEV8 FALL. 


knew tliat it would cost a great sum of 
money to persuade tlie busy doctor to come 
down to Greenwich Sti*eet and surreptitiously 
examine her husband ; but what was wealth 
compared with Conrad’s sanity ? One morn- 
ing she dressed herself with some care and 
started on her errand. With the piaidence 
often characterislic of a non -excitable tem- 
perament, before she visited the specialist 
she went to the bank where Conrad kept his 
account. 

How large a balance has Mr. Himmel at 
present ? ” she asked. 

^^None at all,” was the startling answer. 
“ He overdrew his account a month ago.” 

Mrs. Himmel never knew how she reached 
home. AVhat did it mean, this lack of funds 
at the bank ? Surely it could not be that 
Conrad was false to her ! This idea had 
never entered her mind before. At first she 
rejected it as absurd. But let such a sus- 
picion once enter a wife’s head and it will 
give her no peace until she has established 
its unreasonableness. A jealous woman is 


CONRAD HIMMEnS FALL. 


151 


not like a careless author. She insists upon 
seeing the proofs. 

It must be acknowledged that Mrs. Him- 
mel had some grounds for her distrust of 
Conrad. Did not the theory that another 
woman had w^on his affection explain his 
absence from home in the evening ? His 
neglect of the children, his coldness toward 
his wife, the reckless extravagance that had 
caused him to overdraw his bank account, his 
tendency to hum love songs at night all com- 
bined to convince Mrs. Himmel that she had 
a rival. 

As was before remarked, Mrs. Himmel was 
not easily aroused, and at the crisis she had 
now reached she displayed great coolness 
and common sense. She did not accuse her 
husband of treachery, nor did she change her 
manner toward him in the least. She did' 
what few woman would have done under the 
circumstances — she sat down cal;nly and 
thought. Now, when a woman like Mrs. 
Himmel sets to thinking, there is no immedi- 
ate outcome of the process. But after a time 


152 


CONRAD HIMMEUS FALL. 


a decision of some importance is pretty cer- 
tain of being reached. Mrs. Himmel, at this 
most fateful time, performed a very clever 
bit of ratiocination. She argued thus : If 
Conrad loves another woman that woman 
must live somewhere. Conrad is not the 
kind of man to beget a passion for a woman 
who lives nowhere. Now, if Conrad loves a 
woman who lives somewhere, he must know 
where she lives. If Conrad knows where 
she lives, he must know how to get there. If 
he knows how to get there, it is probable 
that he does get there. Now, if Conrad 
loves a woman who lives somewhere, and if 
he knows how to go to her and does go to 
her, it is certain that people who do not love 
her can learn how to go to her and can go to 
her. 

Mrs. Himmel was fatigued after she had 
-reached, by the above method, this conclu- 
sion, and was obliged to retire. She slept 
soundly, in s]3ite of the fact that Conrad was 
even more restless than usual. If lie liad 
known what was the basis of her dreams tliat 


CONRAD UIMMEL’8 FALL. 


153 


night he would have stopped humming and 
done a little useful tliinking. But Conrad 
Avas not a mind-reader. 

The following day Mrs. Himmel continued 
her syllogistic exercise. She spent eight or 
ten hours Avith major premises, minor prem- 
ises, conclusions, compound propositions, and 
other things of that kind, and came out 
of the ordeal a subdued, sorroAvful, but de- 
termined woman. She had made up her 
mind to folloAV her husband, the erring Con- 
rad, Avhen he left the saloon on the next 
evening. 

Mrs. Himmel had a brother Avhose mental 
machinery resembled hers in construction. 
He had never employed his reasoning pow- 
ers to any great advantage, hoAvever, and had 
not made a success of life. He spent most 
his time han2:in^ about his brother-in-law’s 

o o 

saloon and drinking beer — for Avhich he neA^er 
paid. Mrs. Himmel Avas fond of this ne’er- 
do-Avell, and decided to make him her ally 
in her effort to discover her rival. 

The conversation betAveen Mrs, Himmel 


154 


CONBAD HIMMEUS FALL. 


and her brother was pathetic. He admitted 
that he had observed the change in Conrad’s 
habits and manner. It was the subject of 
much gossip in the saloon. At first he Avas 
inclined to be extremely pugnacious. If 
Conrad had been untrue to Mrs. Himmel, he 
AA'ould have to ansAver to the brother. It 
was true that Conrad had ahvays given 
him all the beer he Avanted, but what did 
free beer amount to when honor Avas con- 
cerned ? 

Mrs. Himmel Avisely calmed the excited 
mood of her fraternal ally. It Avould not do 
to have a scandal. Their exalted position in 
the neighborhood demanded diplomacy in 
dealing Avith the affair. She suggested that 
they dog the footsteps of her AA^andering boy 
on the folloAving night, and Avhen they had 
discovered the source of Conrad’s eccentrici- 
ties they could then decide upon their further 
movements. After a long argument, main- 
tained Avith much brilliancy on both sides, 
she finally convinced her brother that her 
plan was the better one. 


CONRAD HIMMEU8 FALL. 


155 


For the first time in her life, Mrs. Himmel 
was nervous when she set out with her 
brother, about seven o’clock the next night. 
Conrad’s tall form was about half a block 
ahead of them, and his pursuers had no diffi- 
culty in keeping him in sight. Conrad never 
hurried. He slowly walked eastward along 
Bleecker Street, and finally boarded an up- 
town horse-car. Mrs. Himmel hastened for- 
ward and entered a hack at the corner. The 
brother, who had taken one glass too much of 
Conrad’s beer, directed the driver to follow 
the horse-car. 

Mrs. Himmel, as she rolled up Sixth Ave- 
nue, felt as though she were going to execu- 
tion. She had had such a happy life with 
Conrad ! Their home had been for so many 
years a bower of bliss — and beer ! And now 
another woman, a silken serpent, had de- 
stroyed their peace ! It was too hard. She 
could not bear it; and she wept in silent 
agony. 

At Thirty-ninth Street her brother, who 
had kept his head out of the window during 


156 


CONE AD IIIMMEUS FALL. 


the entire drive, directed the coacliman to 
turn toward Broadway. 

^^He’s left the car,” he said to Mrs. Hiin- 
mel. At the corner of Broadway the con- 
spirators left the hack. They stood on the 
sidewalk in bewilderment. There was a 
crowd around them, and the noise and bustle 
of opera night pervaded the thoroughfare in 
front of the Metropolitan. 

Where is he ?” whispered Mrs. Plimmel 
to her brother. 

There he goes,” lie answered, seizing her 
by the arm and urging her toward the door- 
way. He was right. Conrad was in the 
lobby, buying a first gallery ticket. 

Then the whole bitter truth flashed upon 
Mrs. Himmel. Her Conrad had become 
hopelessly addicted to the Wagnerian habit 
— and they were ruined. 


A PHONOGRAPHIC 
TRAGEDY. 


EORGE OSBOKNE’S marital infeli* 
city dates from the day on whicli lie first 
became fascinated by a plionograpli. He had 
read a great deal about the wonderful possi- 
bilities connected with the instrument, but 
he had never seen one. He was persuaded 
by an eloquent canvasser one day, not long 
ago, to rent a phonograph for use in his 
office. He spent several hours learning how 
to manipulate the machine the afternoon it 
arrived. The clerks and office-boys deserted 
their work to watch Osborne with his new 
toy. 

At dinner that evening Osborne described 
to his wife the remarkable achievements of 
his phonograph; how it reproduced a song 
sung by his head clerk, and a banjo solo per- 

157 


158 


A PHONOOBAPHIG TRAGEDY, 


formed by one of tlie boys. Osborne was 
always an entertaining talker at dinner. He 
believed that jesting and digesting bave a 
very close connection with each other. His 
wife was very muck impressed with liis 
description of the phonograph, and deter- 
mined to go to the office on the following 
morning. 

Osborne told his wife that he was going to 
spend the evening at the club. Instead of 
so doing, however, he went to his office and 
played with the phonograph until midnight. 
He had never been so happy since the day 
his wife accepted him. During the evening 
' he sang into the instrument some verses of a 
love ditty that he had recently heard at his 
club. They ran as follows : 

I stood by her side to-night 
And she sang a song to me ; 

A song as full of sadness 
As sweet in its melody. 

A song of love and sorrow, 

Of a love that came too late. 

Did she know — that fair-haired woman — ^ 

She had made me curse my fate ? 


A pi/omonApmo tragpdt. 


150 


Curse myself for the folly 
The blindness of youth had wrought ; 

Curse myself for the wisdom 

That had been so dearly bought? 

And the twilight grew to darkness, 

The song with its sadness died. 

God ! How I love this woman ! ” 

My heart in its anguish cried. 

And all through the weary years 
My soul shall sink with the weight 

Of a love so full of sadness — 

Of a love that came too late. 

AVlten Mrs. Osborne reached the office in 
the morning, she found that her husband had 
gone out on a matter of business. One of 
the clerks offered to operate the phonograjffi 
for her. She was delighted with the instru- 
ment. The comic song and the banjo solo 
pleased her extremely, and she laughed 
heartily to hear her husband reciting Bin- 
gen on the Khine.” Then he began to sing. 
Mrs. Osborne’s face grew grave. I stood 
by her side to-night.” Did she know — that 
fair-haired woman — she had made me curse 


160 


A PHOiYOGJiAPEIO TPAGEDT. 


my fate ? ” Tins was awful. Mrs. Osborne 
burst into tears and left the office hurriedly. 

All this happened some weeks ago. Os- 
borne is still trying to convince his wife that 
no fair-haired woman ever sang to him in the 
gloaming, and that he has no personal 
acquaintance with a love that came too 
late. 


A SNUBBED HUSBAND. 



Y friend J enks, who lias been married 


about a year, met me on Fifth Avenue 
a few days ago. He was walking uptown at 
a rapid pace, and his handsome face was 
flushed. 

Come with me, old man,” he said, seizing 
me by the arm. “ I have just received a teh 
egiam saying that a crisis had been reached 
at the house. I don’t want to go home 
alone. If you love me you’ll stick by me, 
my dear fellow.” 

I did not fully grasp the significance of his 
words, but, as I like Jenks, I agreed to his 
proposal. His nervousness increased as we 
apjiroached his house. As we entered the 
hall he bounded upstairs and left me to find 
my way to the library. After a short time 
Jenks rejoined me. He was very pale. 


161 


162 ' A SNUBBED HUSBAND. 

“ I — I don’t tliinlv tliey want me up there/' 
lie remarked. Someliow I seemed to be in 
everybody’s way.” 

He brought out a box of cigars and a 
decanter of brandy. 

“ I must have something to quiet me/’ he 
said in a desperate way. 

Under certain circumstances highly strung 
temperaments crave alcohol and tobacco. 
Therein lies a great peril to such men as 
Jenks. In the present instance the excited 
husband pursued the worst possible course. 
As he walked up and down the room, puffing 
a cigar, the calmness that he sought seemed 
further off than before. Hearing a step in 
the hall, he hurried to the door. The nurse 
was going upstairs. He spoke to her, but 
she returned no answer. 

“ Snubbed again ! ” he exclaimed petu- 
lantly. “ Actually, old man, I don’t amount 
to anything in my own house to-day.” 

Pretty soon the doctor came into the 
library. 

“ Is my wife in any danger ? ” asked Jenks 
flightily. 


A SNUBBED HUSBAND. 


163 


“ Yes. She’s in imminent peril of — having 
a baby,” answered the doctor hnmoronsly. 
Then, seeing me, he turned on his heel and 
left the room. 

“ Confound him ! ” exclaimed Jenks. He 
treats me like a boy.” 

An hour passed slowly by. Jenks was 
gradually approaching a state of collapse. 
An unusual bustle was heard upstairs. IVIy 
friend lio:hted a fresh cigar and took another 

o o 

stift* dose of brandy. Then somebody in the 
hall remarked, “ It’s twins.” 

I rushed from the house and left Jenks to 
his fate. 


A LUCKY 
PAEAGRAPHER. 


YOUNG American is now traveling 



in Europe because be cracked a good 
joke. He was a sub-editor on a leading 
Chicago newspaper. The proprietor of tlie 
journal became a victim of melancliolia. He 
bad worked bard to make bis newspaper suc- 
cessful, and when tbe ricb fruits of years of 
labor began to fall into bis lap be found bis 
nerves shattered and bis constitution ruined. 
He kept at work in tbe hope that bis for- 
mer health would return to him. Insom- 
nia sapped his strength ; be grew^ irritable 
and unreasonable. He bad been a great 
lover of humor, but search tbe press as be 
might, be could not find a joke that gave liiin 
tbe slightest pleasure. In despair be even 
perused tbe columns of London Punch in tbe 


1G4 


A LUCKY PARAGRAPHER. 


165 


liope that something therein might strike him 
as funny. Of course, under such treatment 
his melancholy increased. 

The editorial paragrapher, who is now on 
the other side of the water, watched his 
chief closely. He realized that the great 
man, if he could once again laugh at a news- 
paper joke, would feel that the gate blocking 
the highroad to health had been opened. 
For weeks he endeavored to write a para- 
graph that would bring a smile to the wan 
face of his employer. He would work late 
into the night trying to strike a funny idea. 
He searched his “ Cyclopaedia of Humor of 
all Ages ” for a joke that could be effectively 
redressed. In vain ! The paragrapher could 
not make the gloomy countenance of his 
chief change its expression for an instant. 
Pie began to break down himself, and finally 
grew so nervous that he found it impossible 
to do his usual work. Thereupon he decided 
to resign, and so wrote as follows to the tar- 
get of his useless wit : 

Dear Sir : After several years in your em- 


16G 


A LXJCRT PARAGnAPnER 


ploy, I feel it a difficult matter to leave your 
staff. However, I am obliged to confess that 
I am not as funny as I should be. In fact, 
the real cause of my departure is ^ no joke.’ 
I have thought of giving you laughing gas 
on the sly. But my better nature overcame 
the temptation. Trusting that you may yet 
find somebody wffio will make you smile, I 
remain,” etc. 

By a strange chance this note tickled the 
fancy of the melancholy proprietor. lie 
laughed over it until the tears ran down his 
face. Sending for the discouraged para- 
grapher he placed a check for $1000 in his' 
hand and said : 

Go to Europe for six months, young man. 
Your place on my paper shall be kept for 
you until you return.” 


SEEKING AN IDEA. 


OU have heard of the man who had 



only one idea and that a wrong one. 
I am inclined to think that he led a happy 
life. He endured no nervous strain. 
Serenely tenacious of his misconception, e 
looked forth upon the world from the impreg- 
nable stronghold of concentrated egotism. 
He was fully satisfied with the only offspring 
of his mental process and was blind to the 
fact that the solitary child of his brain was a 
cripple. Perhaps, after all,_an oyster is hap- 
pier than a poet. If the chief end of man 
is peace, why should we not long to become 
bivalves? They get into a stew now and 
then, it is true, but before death they are 
ahvays able to make both ends meet. This 
is not sic semper with a poet. 

How the hero of the tale from real life 


168 


SEEKim AN IDEA, 


that I am about to relate was not a man of 
one idea. In fact he prided himself upon 
having just fifty-two ideas a year. Perhaps 
you have heard of him. He writes under the 
nom-de-plume of “Mercury.” He took this 
title, as he says, because his writings make 
quick silver for him. 

As I said, he depends upon his brain to 
furnish him at least half a hundred ideas 
every twelve months. That is, he pays his 
landlady and washerwoman from the pro- 
ceeds of the yarns he writes for a certain 
pictorial weekly. Fortunately for him he 
has a small income from money left to him 
by his parents. It is not sufficient, however, 
to support him, so he vigorously wields a pen 
to keep him from penury. 

Not many weeks ago Arnold was dismayed 
to find that his weekly idea was not forth- 
coming. His brain was as barren as the fields 
of Almadan after the Caliph’s hosts had 
passed that way. Now, a literary man who 
has nothing to write about is fully as happy 
as a dragoon who has lost his legs. Arnold 


SEEKING AN IDEA. 


169 


suffered intense mental anguish for two days. 
Yon who have never tried to coax an idea 
from the empty chambers of yonr dilapi- 
dated brain cannot begin to comprehend the 
tortures endured by my unhappy hero. At 
first he could not believe that what he 
sometimes called his “ think tank ” had run- 
dry. He drank brandy, he smoked cigars, he 
even took a hypodermic injection of mor- 
phine, but his imagination failed to respond. 

Mercury ” was very low in the tube, and lie 
actually shed tears as he wrote a note to the 
editor of the pictorial weekly announciug his 
inability to furnish a story at the time ap- 
pointed. 

Look here, old man,” he said to me the 
next day, I am in a bad way. I am startled 
at this sudden failure of my conceptive 
powers. Why, a year ago I was worried by 
my inability to work up all the ideas that 
came into my head. Look at me now, I am 
pale, nervous, absolutely devoid of sugges- 
tions. I have tried drugs, but they were not 
effective, I have attempted to write at the 


no 


SEEKING AN IDEA. 


witching hour when churchyards yawn — but 
I did all the yawning myself. What, oh, 
what shall I do to be saved ? ” 

You are played out, Arnold,” I answered. 
^Wou need a change of scene. The idea you 
seek is surely somewhere in the land. You 
may find it at Bar Harbor, Long Branch, Sar- 
atoga. Fly from here at once. The arid 
soil of your imagination needs the revivifying 
influence of a watering-place.” 

He looked at me intently. 

You are right. I must go away. But I 
dare not go alone. I dread the awful vacuity 
of my once teeming brain. Come with me to 
Saratoga. Perhaps the sparkling waters of 
those famous springs will add vigor to my 
pen and save me from the awful fate of a 
squeezed and juiceless lemon.” 

Two days later my friend and I were whirl- 
ing along the banks of the Hudson toward 
the New AVorld’s Monte Carlo. 

There is inspiration in that sight,” re- 
marked Arnold, pointing to the mountains in 
the west, behind which the sun in golden 


SEEKING AN IDEA. 


Ill 


glory was going down. “It is not strange 
that Drake and Irving found a pathway there 
to the throne of Immortaiity.” 

I was pleased at the remark. It showed 
that Arnold’s brain cells had not entirely col- 
lapsed. 

- “You may find your idea before we reach 
the Springs,” I suggested. 

“ Ko ” ; he returned gloomily. “ And what 
if I did ? It would mean to me fifty dollars, 
perhaps ; but nothing more. I am one of a 
thousand w^ho can write a story of ephemeral 
interest. I know my limitations. I should 
rejoice in fame, in that intoxication that per- 
tains to success in literature, but I do not 
overestimate my skill. Already I fear that I 
have shot my arrow and missed the mark. 
This is a materialistic age, old fellow, and the 
man who has money wields more power than 
he who possesses friends. I once had glorious 
dreams. They were destroyed by the per- 
sistent efforts of my tailor to collect his bill. 
We grow old early, we young Americans. 
If we have not ^made our pile’ at thirty 


172 


SEEKING AN IDEA. 


we are placed on the list of failures and 
are snubbed by lesser men wlio have large 
bank accounts.” 

So in this pessimistic strain we talked until 
the train rolled into Saratoga. We secured 
rooms at the Grand Atlantic and Arnold at 
once began his search for an idea. On the 
morning after our arrival he came to me and 
said : 

I think I have detected favorable symp- 
toms in my case, old man. A conversation I 
just overheard has roused my imagination to 
unwonted activity. I’ll tell you about it later 
on.” 

At dinner he explained his mysterious re- 
marks. 

You see,” he said, “ as I was smoking a 
cigar after breakfast, I heard two men near 
me talking about a girl who had just passed 
through the office. I had been struck by her 
beauty at the time, and was glad to learn her 
name. They discussed her good points in de- 
tail, and dwelt at length upon the fact that 
she is an orphan and worth two million dol- 


SEEKING AN IDEA. 


173 


lars wlien she comes of age. For the first 
time in two weeks I had an idea.” • 

Yes ? What was it ? ” 

‘‘ Never mind, now ; I’ll tell you to-mor- 
row.” 

The following morning I was surprised to 
see Arnold talking to a very handsome young 
woman on the front piazza. He was convers- 
ing in a most animated way, and as I watched 
them I saw that the eloquence of my friend 
was making a strong impression on his vis-a- 
vis. During the day the flirtation, if such it 
could be called, went forward rapidly. The 
maiden was chaperoned by an aunt, who 
seemed to be fascinated by Arnold’s bril- 
liancy. 

^Wou have had good luck with your idea,” 
I remarked late that evening, as my friend 
and I smoked our cigars in the cafe. 

“ Perhaps so. Surely it’s the cJief oeuvre 
of my imagination. If it pays as well as I 
think it will, my fortune’s made.” 

I was shocked at this mercenary way of 
looking at the matter, but knew my friend too 


174 


SEEKING AN IDEA. 


well to expostulate. I had urged him to come 
to Saratoga in search of an idea. He said he 
had found one. Surely I would have ex- 
hibited extreme bad taste if I had interfered 
in his manifestation thereof. 

“ How are you getting on ? ” I asked him, 
a few days later. 

“ Pretty well. I’ve got the aunt solid, but 
the 4dea’ is elusive. I must introduce you 
to them. Perhaps you can heljo me out a 
bit.” 

That evening I had the pleasure of meet- 
ing Mrs. Elmore and her niece. Miss David- 
son. 

am very glad to know you,” said the 
latter. “Mr. Arnold talks about you con- 
stantly.” 

“ Does he, indeed ? I feel highly flattered ; 
but I fear he has not chosen a very interest- 
ing topic.” 

I gave her my arm, and we strolled down 
the piazza. She was a dark, red-cheeked 
woman, who looked more Spanish then 
American, As she ' glanced up at me and 


BEEKING AM IDEA. 


1^5 


smiled maliciously, I realized that she was an 
accomplished flirt. 

“Poor Arnold,” I thought. “I fear he has 
run across the liveliest idea he has ever en- 
countered.” 

Before our walk was at an end she ex- 
claimed petulantly : 

“ I don’t like you. You are not nearly so 
pliable as your friend.” 

“ Do you admire a man of wax ? ” I asked. 

“I like him better than one of iron,” she 
replied. 

De giistihus non est disputandum. The 
man of iron makes the better husband.” 

“ Perhaps, as a general rule. I prefer the 
man of wax. Good -night ! ” 

“ Permit me to congratulate you,” I said to 
Arnold, a few moments later. 

“ Upon what ! Upon the fact that I have 
spent the evening with my idea’s aunt ? ” 

“Don’t be cross, old man. I am not your 
rival. I have no use for a wife with, a for- 
tune of two millions. I think, however, that 
YOU are a sure winner. Go ahead, and put 




SEEKING AN IDEA. 


your matter to tlie test. I lia\^e an inkling 
tliat you will win success.” 

Tlie following day Arnold came to me in 
an agitated state. 

“ I am going back to New York at once,” 
be said. 

Wliat for ? To buy tbe ring ? ” 

“No. I have got an idea. I shall write a 
story entitled ^ How I was Jilted.’ I can get 
fifty dollars for it — but,” and there was a sob 
in his voice, “ I’ve lost two millions.” 


THE COST OF NEW YORK 
LIFE. 



FAMOUS liumorist, wlio is funny once 


a week and is growing rich, has recently 
cussed and discussed in his quaint way the 
subject of Living in New York.” Of course, 
this laughter-begetting ^vielder of the pen 
makes sport, that he who reads may smile. 
Nevertheless the subject has a serious side. 
From a financial point of view, it is not 
funny to live in New York. 

The dollars-and-cents side of the topic is 
that of which I now treat, and I feel that the 
humorist mentioned above will agree with 
me that it is hard to make both ends meet in 
the metropolis. It is an undisputed fact 
that the majority of New Yorkers spend 
more than they earn. There is nothing funny 
about this. 


177 


178 THE COST OF NEW tOBK LIFE. 

Let US then approach a few well authenti- 
cated figures with due solemnity. Lemembei’, 
that Micawber, a shiftless, thriftless fellow, 
realized that happiness lies on the credit side 
of the page, and misery on the debit. Pause, 
ere you peruse this article, and size up your 
financial situation. If you are in debt, don’t 
read what follows ; it will make you sad. 

So much for the prologue. Let us get down 
to facts. The average New Yorker — -T)y that 
I mean the man who makes a fair amount of 
money every year, and is under the same 
influences that surround the bulk of our citi- 
zens — is environed by temptations that war 
against the welfare of his exchequer. He 
leaves his house in the morning, and is at once 
under the necessity of parting ^vith his loose 
change, forsooth, when money is always tight ! 

The first raid made upon his pocket-book 
is headed by a newsboy, marshaling a small 
army of morning journals. The tribute paid 
to this attack is from two to six cents, ac- 
cording to the victim’s thirst for news. A 
few moments later, the target of monopoly 


THE GOST OE NEW YORK LIFE. iTO 

places five cents upon tlie glowing pile that 
daily rises beside the coffers of the elevated 
road. It may be that before this he ' has 
purchased a polish for his shoes by parting 
with a hard-earned nickel. Thus it is that, 
almost before the day is begun, the unhappy 
New Yorker is poorer by fifteen cents. 

Of course most men in these days smoke 
cigars. Before our “ hero ” reaches his office, 
he expends twenty-five cents in obtaining two 
vanishing weeds. And, under the new tariff, 
where the tobacconist once cried “quarter,” 
he now calls out “ thirty cents.” 

Let us say, then, as a conservative estimate, 
that it has cost our subject between forty and 
fifty cents to get to his place of business. If 
he feels the need of a cocktail before he 
throws a day’s work into his think-tank, he 
will be out of pocket fifteen cents more. It is 
now ten o’clock in the morning. At one o’clock 
that extravagant organ, the stomach, craves 
food, nine illcB laclirymcB. Food costs money, 
and we have already spoiled a dollar. But 
luncheon is a necessity, not a luxury ; and our 


180 


THE COST OF NEW YORK LIFE 


hero snatches his hat and goes forth to his 
favorite restaurant. Here he meets a few 
friends, and an appetizer ” is nnaniinously 
agreed upon as essential to the welfare of the 
crowd. The victim of our system of treating 
is lucky if he does not ruin another dollar on 
the altar of good-fellowship — falsely so- 
called. Then comes a slight repast which 
may or may not cost an unreasonable sum. 
Too many cooks spoil the broth, and, like- 
wise, too many cocktails destroy the ajipetite 
for food. Nevertheless, the ceremony of 
eating must be undergone, and the conscien- 
tious metropolitan finds that he is not dis- 
playing good form unless he toys at midday 
with a few oysters, a chicken crocpiette, or a 
slice of rare roast beef. And the jingling of 
the guinea helps the hurt the cashier feels. 

A cigar after luncheon is en regie. The 
remains of a crisp five-dollar note, so joyous 
in its entirety at nine o’clock, are sacrificed to 
tobacco at two. Then, puffing his Havana, 
our hero returns to his office, determined to 
be economical for the rest of the day. 


THE GOST OF NB}V YORK LIFE. 


181 


Alas, for the weakness of Ininian resolu- 
tions. Man proposes to be abstemious; a 
friend suggests a drink after tlie toils of tlie 
day are at an end. Perhaps the libation is 
poured out at a bar, or mayhap at an uptown 
club. The result is the same. Another bill 
is either broken or contracted. Perhaps 
another cigar is smoked. At all events 
another nickel is dropped into Jay Gould’s 
elevated slot. 

There will be those who peruse this who 
will say that my victim of extravagance has 
only himself to blame because he spends $2000 
a year in a foolish way, but descensus Aveimo 
. facilis est. Habits once contracted are hard 
to break, and New York is such a sociable 
town ! The New Yorker who does not smoke 
or drink, who belongs to no club, who walks 
to and from his home, who blacks his own 
shoes and shaves his own chin, who reads 
only one newspaper a day, who saves his 
money and intends to buy a farm, is very 
hard to find. There is a great career in a 
dime museum for such a man. 


182 


THE COST OF NEW YORK LIFE. 


No, the fact is that New York is an expen- 
sive city for a sociable man to inhabit. If 
he is mariied, he must subject himself to a 
course of self-restraint that will whiten his 
hair, while all the time he would rather be 
reddening his nose. It is not strange that 
there are so many bachelors in the metroj)o- 
lis. Even $5000 a year go a short way in 
maintaining a family in a large city built on a 
small island. Kents are high, living dear, and 
the customs of society extravagant. Banish- 
ment to the suburbs awaits the bachelor of 
moderate means who takes to himself a wife. 

Such, in brief, is the problem that presents 
itself to the young New Yorker. Shall he 
abandon his club, his cigars, his wine, his 
freedom, and devote himself to the attempt 
to make a pint of money till a quart measure 
of household bills ? But, woman, lovely 
woman, comes into the equation. And there 
you are ! Under which flag, Bezonian ? 


EDNA DORR. 


F you can snare a doctor in a genial mood 



you are certain to capture a most enter- 
taining companion. A physician sees many 
sides of life and gains a most valuable insight 
into human nature. A famous specialist in 
nervous diseases recently spent an evening 
with me. I asked him if he had ever come 
into contact with mental phenomena that 
science could not explain. He answered : 

“Yes, I had a very curious experience not 
long ago. I was on my way to Washington, 
and had made the acquaintance in the smok- 
ing compartment of two cultivated men 
whose conversation was extremely entertain- 
ing. The talk turned upon mind-reading and 
one of my companions proposed an experi- 
ment. I left the compartment and walked 
to the other end of the car. On my return 


J83 


184 


EDNA DORR. 


my friends informed me that they tiad chosen 
a woman’s name and would will me to guess 
it. We took hold of hands and sat silent for 
a time. Gradually my mind became a blank. 
I could not concentrate my thoughts, and 
a nervous twitching affected my muscles. 
Pretty soon a name came into my head. I 
glanced at my companions. They were eye- 
ing me attentively. As though influenced 
by an irresistible power I faltered out : 

^ Edna Dorr.’ 

‘ That’s it,’ they cried in chorus. ‘ That 
was the name we had selected.’ 

On my return to New York I found the 
name of Edna Dorr constantly in my mind. 
I had never heard it before and did not know 
whether it Avas the name of a living being or 
simply the product of the experimenters’ 
fancy. Whatever it was it haunted me. I 
really felt annoyed at my Aveakness. I began 
to fear that I had overworked and was in 
danger of nervous prostration. 

One night last Aveek I was called to exam- 
ine a critical case at a Avell-knoAAm hospital. 


EDNA DOER. 


185 


I found that the patient, a young woman, 
had been fatally shot in a low resort on the 
Bowery. She was dying when I reached her 
side. Her face bore the marks of refinement 
and beauty, but a life of dissipation had al- 
most obliterated them. I bent toward her, 
for I saw that her end was at hand. 

^ What is your real name ? ’ I asked, know- 
ing that in death she would tell the truth. 

“ ^ Edna Dorr,’ she answered. In another 
moment she was dead. 

That is the whole case. Who she was, or 
how my traveling companions happened to 
select her name, I know not. Queer, wasn’t 
it?” 


THE PIRATE OF NEW 
ROCHELLE. 


EW EOCHELLE, Westchester County, 



N. Y., is an interesting place from an 
historic standpoint. Tom Paine, the famous 
infidel, was so impressed with the town that 
he decided to die there. If you go to live in 
New Eochelle it is necessary to know about 
the death of Paine, on pain of death. It is 
also well to grasp the fact that the Hugue- 
nots settled the place and that politicians 
now run it. Speaking of the latter brings 
me to pirates — the old-fashioned kind who 
scuttled ships instead of looting treasuries. 

The story I am about to tell was related to 
me one evening not long ago by a man upon 
whose shoulders the mantle of the famous 
boy who would not tell a lie has fallen. We 
were seated before a wood fire, smoking long 


J86 


THE PIRATE OF NEW ROCHELLE. 187 

pipes and listening to the storm as it roared 
across the Sound and beat in fury against 
the house. It was just the night for a yarn 
possessing weird features. My friend thus 
began : 

“ When I first entered college, in a small 
city of New England, I was especially im- 
pressed by the importance of the Sophomore 
Class, and the fact that an insane retreat was 
situated almost within a stone’s throw of our 
campus. For the first few weeks of my 
career as a Freshman the Sophomores were 
of more significance to me than the madmen. 
After getting used to the Sophomores, how- 
ever, the ^ crazes,’ as we called the inmates of 
the retreat, became, by a natural step, objects 
of great interest to me. I never passed the 
gloomy stone buildings late at night without 
carrying my penknife open in my hand. 
The muffied shrieks that haunted the dreary 
place thrilled me by their grim suggestive- 
ness. What if an escaped madman should 
attack me in the dark ? 

One afternoon I strolled into the grounds 


188 THE PIRATE OF NEW ROCHELLE. 

whicli stretched in verdant glory for many 
acres in front of the asylum. It was a beau- 
tiful day in June, and the nervousness that 
affected me at midnight did not show itself 
under the influence of the summer sun. On 
such a day and in such a place insanity 
seemed as impossible as blizzards. As I 
wandered along, enjoying the scene before 
me, I noticed that a man was following me. 
‘He is one of the keepers,’ I thought, and 
turned to ask him for a match with which to 
light a cigarette. I was at once struck by 
the beauty of my pursuer. He w^as tall and 
graceful, with a complexion as perfect as a 
woman’s. His eyes were feverislily bright 
and the smile he gave me was peculiar. It 
displayed a set of perfect teeth, but was, to 
my mind, meaningless. He had removed his 
hat and the breeze played with his snow- 
white hair. His mustache was as black as 
his eyes and he looked as though old age 
had attacked him flrst at the top. When I 
asked him for a match his smile became a 
laugh mid he threw himself upon the grass. 


TEE PIRATE OF NEW ROCHELLE. 


189 


“ ^ Sit down/ he cried. ^ I have no match, 
but I want to talk to you.’ 

“ I did as he requested, though I kept my 
hand on my faithful penknife. I began to 
fear that I had encountered one of the 
patients, and that he might become danger- 
ous at any moment. 

^ They say I am crazy,’ he began confi- 
dentially, ^but they are wildly mistaken. 
Look at me, young man. Do I look mad ? ’ 

“ I thought he did, but did not dare to be 
frank with him. 

“ ^ Not at all, sir. You seem to be thor- 
oughly sane.’ 

“ ^ Good. Of course I am. I’ll prove it. 
You are one of the boys at the college up 
there. You study the higher mathematics. 
Now, let me tell you that a line running at 
right angles to infinity will end at a spot 
where gold is buried. Do you follow me? 
Just think of it a moment. No crazy man 
could make such a discovery. If my mind 
was not perfectly sound I never could have 
grasped this great principle, I will go into 


190 


THE PIRATE OF NEW ROCHELLE. 


details with you concerning it. Suppose the 
captain of a ship should ’ 

^ Ah, there you are/ remarked a stern 
voice, and one of the attendants approached 
us. My crazy companion sprang up hastily, 
with a rather sheepish look on his handsome 
face. 

^ Good-day,' he said politely, taking the 
arm of the keeper. ^Put your mind on my 
proposition. It is certain to put gold into 
your purse. Remember, a line running at 
right angles to infinity will end where gold is 
buried.’ 

Years passed, and I had forgotten all 
about this encounter with a madman. After 
I left college I studied law, and finally began 
the practice of my profession in New York 
City. Desiring a quiet home, I came to New 
Rochelle and purchased an old Huguenot 
house that had withstood the storms of a hun- 
dred and fifty years. An aged negro woman, 
who had lived in the family of the original 
owners for several generations, took care of 
me and acted as housekeeper, cook, and maid- 


THB PIRATE OF NE]y ROCHELLE. 


191 


of-all-A7ork. One day slae told me the story 
of her former employers. 

^^^Dey was French refugees, sah, who came 
from France befoh George Washington was 
born. Dey lived heah foh many yeahs. A 
great while ago dere was pirates in dese 
waters. One of dem fell in love with a Hu- 
guenot girl, a daughter of de fust owner of 
dis yere house. He took her away to sea 
and years afterward, when she was an old 
woman, she came back heah. She had her 
little boy with her and papahs to prove the 
place belonged to him. He took de family 
name. After she was dead he found in her 
strong-box a piece of parchment dat had on 
it de map of an island and some queer marks. 
He kept it for many yeahs and never showed 
it to his wife and children. When he was 
about fifty he began to go away from home 
and stay foh days at a time. After a while 
he went daft and dey took him to a mad- 
house. He wust of it was d<at his oldest son 
got hold of dat wicked parchment.’ 

^ What liarm did that do. Aunty ? ’ 


192 


THE PIRATE OF NEV? ROCHELLE. 


^ Why, lie went crazy, too. Dere’ been 
one ob de family dat has gone crazy in ebery 
generation by gettin’ a hold o’ dat map wid 
de queer marks on it.’ 

was interested in her story and took 
pains to find out more about it. I discovered 
that everybody in tlie town knew the strange 

history of the D s. They had be6n a 

prominent and wealtliy family, but the effoi't 
of tlie eldest son in each generation to dis- 
cover tlie hiding-place of their ancesti^al pi- 
rate’s gold had proved disastrous to their for- 
tunes. The last of the race, under the fatal 
influence of the old parchment, had been in a 
madliouse for some years. 

^‘One night when the wund was roaring 

o o 

across Davenport’s Neck and my old mansion 
was creaking and groaning as though it 
thought of the past and moaned in sorrow, I 
sat alone trying to put my mind on a knotty 
case of law. I had allowed my housekeepei 
to spend the night with some friends up the 
Sound, and the loneliness of my dreary home 
almost made me regret my bachelorhood. 


THE PIRATE OF NEW ROGIIELLE. 


193 


Suddenly, to my amazement, I heard a sound 
as though a key had been placed in the lock 
of the front door. I rushed into the hall and 
was confronted by the handsome madman 
who had discovered the relation of a line run- 
ning at right angles to infinity to buried treas- 
ure, I recognized him at once. He had 
grown perceptibly older since my college 
days, but his cheeks were still red and his 
mustache black. His eyes retained the wild 
look that had thrilled me when I lay on the 
grass at his side. 

^ Good-evening,’ he said courteously, plac- 
ing his dripping hat on a chair. ^ You are the 
new owner of my ancestral home ? ’ 

^ I am. I did not know that any one pos- 
sessed a latch-key to the house. However, I 
am pleased to see you. Come into the 
library.’ 

I spoke calmly, but my heart was in my 
throat. I realized that my unwelcome guest 
had escaped from tlie insane asylum and I 
dreaded an outbreak of madness on his part. 

^ Ha ! they were never able to find my 


104 THE PIRATE OF NEW ROCHELLE. 

key,’ lie remarked, seating himself in front of 
the grate fire. ^ I knew I would need it some 
time and I have kept it with me for years.’ 
He chuckled contentedly at his cleverness. 

“^You see,’ he Avent on, ‘I expected to 
solve the great problem and might require 
another look at the ' parchment. Hid you 
ever see it ! ’ He glanced at me suspiciously. 
^ No.’ 

“ ^ Well, it’s here, and the time has come foi 
me to examine it again.’ 

Jle arose from his seat, Avent to a recess in 
the wall, opened a secret panel and brought 
to light a dust-covered roll, the cause of his 
family’s doAvnfall. 

“ ^ Here it is, see ? Just look at this map a 
moment. You can’t make anything out of 
those marks, can you ? ’ 

“ He was intensely excited, and, to humor 
him, I gazed fixedly at the parchment he had 
spread upon the table. 

^ The fact is that my ancestors made one 
great blunder in translating the cipher. I 
liaA^e spent years on the puzzle, and a Aveek 


THE PtliATE OE NEW ROCHELLE. 105 

ago got track of tkeir mistake. Look liere. 
Everybody kas read tlie third line as fol- 
lows : Here is buried.” The correct render- 
ing is “ Huckleberry.” There’s where they all 
got off the track. See ? I thought it all out 
in solitude. Now that I have the parchment 
before me I know that I am right.’ 

What could I say to him ? I knew that 
he was crazy, but his manner was as earnest 
and well balanced as that of a sane man 
pointing out a great discovery to a friend. 

He rerolled the parchment and replaced 
it in its hiding-place. Then placing his hand 
familiarly on my shoulder he whispered : 

‘ I’ve got a boat waiting for us.’ 

“ ^ What do you mean ? ” 

Why, don’t you understand me ? I 
agree to take you in as my partner in this 
affair. My predecessors in this search thought 
that the gold was buried on Davenport’s 
Neck. I have proved to you that Huckle- 
berry Island is the place to look for it. The 
night is dark and windy, but my boat is not 
at all cranky.’ 


196 TBE PIRATE OP NEW ROCHELLE. 

^ I wish you weren’t.’ I muttered to my 
self. To put to sea in a rowboat with a 
madman on such a nis^lit as that was absurd. 
But how could I help it ? He was much 
larger and stronger than I, and I feared every 
moment that by some word or look I would 
arouse his crazy rage. He gazed at me now 
and then with a suspicious gleam in his eyes 
that warned me to be careful. . 

“ ‘ I will go with you,’ I said at length. 

He laughed wildly, seized my liand, and 
said that I was a worthy occupant of his 
family’s liomestead. I began to think he 
spoke the truth, for I was not certain that 
my reason could withstand the ordeal before 
me. 

‘ Excuse me a moment until I get my 
overcoat.’ Before he could follow me I was 
in the hall and had slipped a revolver into 
my pocket. I was none too quick, for in an- 
other instant he had placed an arm in mine 
and was hurrying me toward the door. The 
storm had abated somewhat, and the moon 
would now and then peep forth from behind 


PlUATB OB NEW liOCIIELLB. 10*7 

the scurrying scud. Water diipped from tlie 
trees, and as we crossed the road we sunk to 
our ankles in mud. As soon as we reached 
the shore I saw that he had made his arrancre- 
ments with the craftiness of a madman. The 
boat was drawn up in the shelter of a rock 
and contained a spade and pick-ax. We put 
forth with some difficulty, for a heavy surf was 
beating against the shore. The crazy man 
took the oars and handled them with almost 
superhuman skill. I sat in the stern, and 
under his direction headed for Huckleberry 
Island. The sea was so rough that it was 
nearly an hour before we grounded on the 
western end of the island. 

Taking the spade, the pick-ax, and a large 
bag from the boat, my companion hurried for- 
ward. He seemed to have no doubt as to his 
destination. It was evident that the map on 
the parchment was thoroughly impressed on 
his mind. Tlie night had grown dark again 
and the moon had abandoned her efforts to 
pierce the clouds. I found it difficult to 
keep near the madman, and when I finally 


198 THE PIRATE OE NEW ROCHELLE. 

overtook him, he was using the spade with 
feverish energy and had already dug quite a 
large hole in the pliant earth. 

‘ Keep quiet,’ he said sternly. ^ This 
is the place.’ Then he went to work again 
with renewed vigor. 

“ I watched him for a long half-hour. He 
was hatless, and his gray hair formed a ]3lay- 
thing for the wind. After a time he threAV off 
his coat and then his vest. As the hole grew 
deeper his excitement increased. He swore, 
most appropriately, like a pirate, and I clung 
to the pick-ax for comfort. At length his 
spade struck something and he bent down 
eagerly with an exclamation of triumph on 
his lips. Then to my horror he brought forth 
a skull. Hurling it from him with a curse 
he renewed his task. The skeleton of a man 
impeded his progress, and he cast the bones 
aside in a way that filled me with dread. He 
was growing madder every moment, and as he 
began to realize that there was nothing in the 
grave but the remains of liis piratical ancestor 
liis fury knew no bounds. Springing from 


TUE PIRATE OF NEW ROGUELLE. 


109 


tlie hole, that was now waist-deep, he rushed 
.at me, and before I could avoid him he had 
seized me by the neck. 

you,’ he cried, ^you have been 

here before and stolen the gold. You must 
die, you thief.’ 

I was choking. There was murder in his 
eyes and I had to choose between my own 
death and his. Grasping my revolver, just as 
my struggle for breath had become desperate, 
I shot him through the breast. He fell at 
my feet, and as I leaned forward, still pant- 
ing heavily, I heard him mutter : ^ A line 

running at right angles to infinity will 
end ’ Then he died.” 


A MAD NOVELIST. 


HERE are those who hold that a novelist 



or poet is always more or less mad. 
Perhaps they are right. The creative imag- 
ination seems to be in a certain sense a fever 
of the brain. It is very probable that the 
cerebrum and cerebellum of Shakespeare were 
highly inflamed at times — even when he had 
not been to the tavern with rare Ben Jon- 


son. 


But it is not often that a writer of fiction 
is obliged to go to an asylum because his 
metier has made him mad. Such, however, 
was the sad fate of Sidney Orcott, whose 
stories you have doubtless read. He is a 
raving lunatic and cares not at all that his 
books are having a great sale. The way of 
it was this. 

Orcott, as you know, was somewhat de^ 


A MAD NOVELIST. 


201 


voted to the realistic school, and became in- 
fatuated with the idea of writing a novel 
wdth a crazy man as the hero.” I met him 
at a club one night about a year ago and he 
outlined his project to me. His plot was 
brilliant, and it was evident that he had made 
a close study of insanity in all its phases. 

I will never forget the picture he presented 
that evening. He was not in ajipearance a 
literary man, according to the vulgar ideal. 
He was dressed in the height of fashion and 
his linen was as white as a baby’s thoughts. 
His tine-cut features — you have seen his pic- 
ture — were enlivened by the fire of his genius. 
His black hair added to the effectiveness of 
his pale face. He was almost Byi'onic in 
beauty, but seemed unconscious of his looks. 
Men are as vain as women, but Sidney Or- 
cott was more anxious to obtain fame in let- 
ters than to win it as a physical gem. He 
wished to scale the ladder of greatness rather 
by his pen than by his pictures. Perhaps 
this desire was the outcome of his incipient 
insanity. 


202 


A MAD NOVELIST. 


I noticed, however, that his eyes possessed 
a peculiar luster new to them. When he 
talked about the hero of his story his face 
assumed an expression that filled me with 
nervous dread. Surely,” I thought, Orcott 
will either produce a masterpiece or go mad.” 

I was right. 

A few evenings later I met a famous alien- 
ist at dinner. He talked about Orcott. 
He’s a queer chap,” remarked my vis-a-vis. 
He comes to my office and asks me all sorts 
of hard questions about insanity. He will sit 
for hours among my books reading about dis- 
eases of the mind. I wonder if he intends to 
become my rival in my own field.” 

The speaker smiled with conscious power, . 

I saw Orcott only once again before he was 
taken to a mad-house. The weird light in his 
eyes had become oppressively bright. He 
talked incessantly about his novel. 

You see,” he said, ^^my hero was a quiet, 
steady-going business man, with no bad habits. 
After a time he and his family noticed that 
his memory had become weak, He went to 


A MAD NOVELIST. 


203 


a physician and was told to qnit work. He 
did so, but found to his dismay that even 
after a long rest he could not remember what 
he had said or done an hour before. Then he 
began to have hallucinations. He thought he 
had solved the problem of perpetual motion. 
His hands were never quiet. All day and 
all night he would keep rubbing them to^ 
gether, and finally he broke down altogether 
and they took him to an insane retreat. 
There he is to-day, rubbing his hands and il- 
lustrating his theory of perpetual motion.” 

Two things struck me while Orcott was 
speaking. In the first place he had evidently 
forgotten that he had told me all this about his 
hero a few evenings before ; secondly, he had 
been rubbing his hands together from the 
time I entered, and continued to do so until I 
left him. Really^” I thought, “ this is carry- 
ing realism to an extreme.” 

I thought no more about the matter until 
a few days later, when a friend said to 
me : 

“ Isn’t it sad about poor Orcott ? ” 


204 


A MAD NOVELIST. 


“ What’s the matter with him,” I asked 
in dismay, for I have always been fond 
of Orcott. 

“Do yon mean to say that yon haven’t 
heard ? Why, Orcott has gone crazy. First 
he lost his memory, and now he thinks he has 
discovered peipetual motion. His difficulty 
is the result of overstudy — of a too conscien- 
tious devotion to his realistic ideas. They 
have taken him to an asylum.” 


A WIFE’S FATE. 


OU have seen Orville Kanney. His 



white hair and youthful face are so 
striking that, unless you go through the 
world with your eyes shut, you must have 
asked his name. You remember the tall, 
sad-faced man who walks np Broadway 
every afternoon at four, and is sometimes 
seen at the opera. He has never courted 
notoriety, but his appearance is such that, in 
spite of himself, local fame has come to him. 
There are few who know his history. It is a 
sad one. He told me his story a few nights 
ago. Listen : 

“I have always had a passion for old 
houses,” began Eanney, as we sat puffing our 
after-dinner cigars at an uptown club. “ I 
was born in one of those ancient mansions 
that still defy the wintry winds that beat 


m 


206 


A WIFE’S FATE. 


across the eastern end of Long Island. It 
had been built by one of my ancestors in the 
seventeenth century, and the family had 
lived there for many generations. As a boy 
I spent much time in the timber-ribbed attic 
of my birthplace, overhauling relics of the 
past and building castles in the air. Heigho, 
I wish I could be a boy again ! I have vis- 
ited the Alhambra, and seen the Coliseum by 
moonlight, but the romance that surrounded 
my homestead in my early years I shall 
never find again. 

As I said, I have always retained my 
love for those antique structures in which 
men of old stalked about in knee-breeches and 
frills, living, loving, hating, dying, in those 
queer days before George Washington was 
born. It was that love that proved my ruin. 
The way of it was this : 

I was engaged to be married to one of 
the loveliest women New York has ever 
known. Here is her picture. A fairer face 
you cannot find. She was a perfect woman — 
delicate, high-bred, affectionate, proud, I 


A t'ATE. 


507 


worsliiped lier, and when she promised to be 
my wife, my Joy was infinite. 

“ One day, not long before our marriage, 
we were driving through Westchester County, 
a province rich in tradition and attractive to 
the eye. It was late in May, and I was 
anxious to find a house where we could 
spend the summer. We were to be married 
early in June. Suddenly I was struck by 
the charms of an ancient mansion that stood 
on a gentle hill overlooking Long Island 
Sound. It was a large house — old-fashioned, 
rambling, picturesque. White Corinthian 
pillars supported the piazza, and above the 
roof arose a peculiar conformation that indi- 
cated the Huguenot origin of the first owner. 
A great lawn, bedecked with stately trees, 
surrounded the old house, and a dilapidated 
lodge at the entrance of the place was mourn- 
fully going to ruin. A sign on the gate in- 
formed the public that the house and grounds 
were ^ For Sale or to Rent.’ 

To make a long story short, I leased the 
house for the season. On our return from 


A WIFE'S FATE. 


208 

our honeymoon, my wife was astonished and 
delighted at the change that had been 
wrought in the ancient Huguenot homestead. 
I had expended a large amount of money in 
placing the mansion and grounds in good 
order, and my workmen had well fulfilled 
their task. 

It was with pardonable pride that I led 
my bride into our future home. She wsis 
delighted with the outcome of the orders I 
had left. A neglected rookery had been 
turned into a modern palace. There was 
still about the mansion an air of faded gran- 
deur that pleased our antiquarian tastes, biit 
to this was added those contemporary luxu- 
ries that wealth, well directed, can procure. 
The house, nearly two centuries old, seemed 
to wear its new adornments with patrician 
dignity. The whole place appeared to re- 
joice, in its quiet way, over its restoration to 
respectability. 

“ Houses, especially those that have seen a 
great deal of life, acquire an individuality 


A FATE. 


209 


that is almost human. My wife and I, well 
do I remember, talked of this strange fact 
during our first dinner in our new home. 
We referred to the peculiar fascination that 
this deserted homestead had exerted over us 
when we first saw it, and rejoiced that w^e 
had given in to it. For it ^vas a very i^leas- 
ant place. The view of the sound, through 
the windows of the dining-room was entranc- 
ing, and the incense of the growing summer 
added to our joy. Oh, my friend, how much 
there is in youth and hope and love. That 
evening was the culmination of my life. 
Though I lived a thousand years, I could never 
again taste the bliss that was mine during 

o o 

those sacred hours when, hand in hand, my wife 
and I watched the rising moon, as it kissed 
the w^aters of the Sound and threw about us 
fantastic shadows. For all eternity that 
evening will be to me the pinnacle of joy, 
the highest altitude of liuman happiness. 

And now for the dark side of the sci'een. 
It was late that night before we retired. I had 


210 


A WIFE’S FATE. 


been asleep but an hour when I was aroused 
of a sudden by a cry that echoed from be- 
low : ^ Help ! help ! ’ 

“ I jumped from the bed in a fright. My 
wife was sitting upright, a look of terror on 
her face. ^ Help ! help ! ’ again the awful 
sounds echoed through the house. Seizing 
my revolver, I rushed downstairs. I felt 
sure that in the hallway I Avould find a 
tragedy in play. There was no one there. I 
ran to the parlor. It was vacant. The din- 
ing-room, too, was empty. There was one 
room left, the library. As I opened the 
door, again I heard that weird and thrilling 
cry : ‘ Help ! help ! ’ To my hoi:ror, this 
time the voice was my wife’s. Hushing up- 
stairs, I fainted at the sight before me. 

AVhen I came to my senses an hour later, 
the light in our night lamp was burning 
dimly. The wind had arisen, and on the 
shore behind the house the waters broke 
with an insistent sound. I arose feebly and 
approached the bed. My wife lay dead; 


A WIFE^^ FATE. 


211 


Upon her throat were the marks of murder- 
ous hands. I staggered to a mirror. My 
hair had turned white. And now in the 
silent watches of the night, I hear that 
ghastly cry : ^ Help ! help ! ’ I have not 
slept for many weeks. What the end will 
be I know not, but I think I am going 
mad ! ” 


AN ANARCHIST BY FATE. 


ever Lear Low TimotLy Troop 



Lappened to become an anarcList? It 
was tLe outcome of a slow process begun in 
Lis boyliood. TimotLy was an indefatigable 
reader, and was always under tlie influence of 
tLe last autLor lie Lad perused. During 
several years of Lis life lie imagined Limself 
a kniglit-errant, and copied, so far as lie could, 
tLe Leroes of Walter Scott and G. P. E. 
James. His inotLer to Ler dying day never 
forgot tlie time wlien Tim” was nearly suf- 
focated by drawing a tin can over Lis Lead, 
lie Lad cut eye-Loles tLerein, but tliey were 
not in tlie right place, and wlien Lis motlier 
found liini Le was writliiiig on tlie kitclien 
■floor for want of air. He explained tliat Le 
and Lis playmates were to Lold a tourney 
that day and that Le was to break a lance” 


212 


AN ANAIiOmST BY FATE. 


213 


with Jack Johnson. The lance was never 
broken, but his mother’s slipper received con- 
siderable injury in a one-sided duel, later in 
the afternoon — after Timothy had recovered 
his breath. 

This tendency to carry into practice what 
he read in fiction increased as young Troop 
approached manhood. He became by turns 
a lover, a cynic, a miser, a spendthrift, a de- 
voted church-goer, an atheist, and various 
other things of strongly contrasted character. 

One day he read the following lines : 

The man who hath no music in his soul, 

And is not moved by concord of sweet sounds, 

Is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils, 

He was startled. That he had ^^no ear for 
music” he had often been told. He realized 
that he was utterly insensible to the entranc- 
ing strains of a brass band, and had never 
thrilled when the harmonious hurdy-giu'dy 
echoed through the street. Even the piano- 
playing of his sister gave him no pleasure, 
and he had even thought of murdering a cor- 


214 


AN ANAliCmST Bt FATE. 


net mani|)ulator who occupied the adjoining 
house. These facts worried him. Could it 
be possible that he, Timothy Troop, was fit 
for treasons, stratagems, and spoils? Ilis 
sensitive soul collapsed in horror at the 
thouf^ht. 

Timothy, as we have seen, was a man of 
action. No sooner had the fear arisen in his 
mind that nature had made him piratical and 
lawless than he set out to establish the exact 
status of his make-up. He went first to the 
leader of the church choir. 

Will you kindly .test my voice ? ” asked 
Timothy. 

“ Certainly,” was the answer, “ please sound 
that note.” 

Timothy attempted to place his vocal 
organ on terms of intimacy with the rever- 
berating sound. The result was a dismal 
discord. Again and again the good-natured 
musican tried to induce our hero to avoid 
fiats and sharps and strike a note squarely in 
the center. It soon became evident that 
Timothy would die with all his music in 


AN ANARCHIST BY FATE. 


215 


liim. There was no way’ of getting any out 
of him. 

This was discouraging. If he could not 
sing, could he still be moved by concord of 
sweet sounds? This was the problem now 
before him. He asked the musician to play 
a symphony on the organ. As the inspiring 
chords echoed through the church Timothy 
kept a finger on his pulse. His heart did not 
seem to beat one stroke faster under the 
influence of the paljiitating harmony. He 
turned pale, hastily thanked the musician, 
and rushed from the church. The awful 
thought was upon him that he felt no more 
emotion under the genjus of Beethoven than 
when listening to the tinpanism of his sister’s 
finger exercises. He had no music in his 
soul. 

One hope remained to him. He would go 
to Hew York and listen to a grand ojiera. 
If he failed to vibrate when Wagner twanged 
the strings he would devote his life to trea- 
sons, stratagems, and spoils. He was not 
quite certain what these things were, but 


216 


AN AN ARC BIST BY FATE. 


surely somebody in the metropolis could tell 
him. He was convinced that it is always 
best for a man to discover what nature has 
fitted him for, and then to give up his ^vhole 
time to the development of his special talents. 

He went, he heard, he fell. At the end of 
the first act of “ Tristan and Isolde ” he rushed 
from the opera-house, convinced that his 
poor sold had in it no more music than a 
squash. For a few moments he gave way to 
despair. Then his manhood asserted itself, 
and he determined to begin his career in the 
line pointed out by fate. 

Where can I find some treasons, strata- 
gems, and spoils ? ” hew asked timidly of a 
policeman. 

The officer gazed at Timothy for a moment 
in surprise. Then muttering : He is either 
drunk or crazy,” he dragged our hero to the 
nearest station. 

What is your name ? ” asked the sergeant. 

“Timothy Troop.” 

“ What is the matter with you ? ” 

“ I have no music in my soul,” 


AN ANARCHIST BT FATE. 


217 


The sergeant smiled grimly. “Most of 
’em have when they get such a jag as yours,” 
he remarked. 

Timothy spent the night in a cell. The 
next morning he was discharged with a warn- 
ing to abstain from strong drink. 

Timothy Troop was not a man to be easily 
discouraged. He had received a sharp lesson 
and had profited thereby. He determined to 
be more cautious in the future. 

After his release he purchased a morning 
newspaper and strolled along Forty-second 
Street. Presently he espied a park, and, 
passing through the gateway, seated himself 
on a vacant bench. Then he began a perusal 
of the news. Presently his eye was attracted 
by an editorial relating to the latest develop- 
ment of anarchy in the metropolis. 

As he read on his face flushed with 
pleasure and a smile shone on his fascinating 
mouth. 

“ Anarchy,” said the editorial, “ is in its 
very essence treason. The stratagems em- 
ployed by the lawless men who gather nightly 


218 


AN ANARCmST BY FATE. 


at Dynamite Hall are not for the purpose of 
elevating humanity, but that they may in 
time gather to themselves the spoils of an 
overturned universe.” 

That evening Timothy Troop was among 
the throng at Dynamite Hall. He is now 
one of the most popular speakers among those 
who have no music in their souls. 


A PUQILISTIC ENCOUN- 
TER. 


the 1st of January, 1891, Albert T. 

Jones, attorney and counselor-at-law, 
“ swore off.” He took this heroic step be- 
cause of various circumstances. Some 
months before he had noticed that his barber 
always put a little powder on his nose after 
he had shaved him. This innovation wor- 
ried Mr. Jones. He laid awake o’ nights 
wondering if his nose was really growing 
red. At early dawn he would rush to his 
mirror to find his worst fears confirmed. His 
room was cold. Of course his nose was red. 

Now Mr. Jones was not a hard drinker. 
Perhaps he imbibed three cocktails a day 
and a bottle of wine. Nevertheless, he real- 
ized that he was losing his memory. He for- 
got to pay a bill now and then^ and discoV” 

219 


220 


A PUGILISTIC RENCOUNTER. 


ered that he liad lost all recollection of the 
first year of his babyhood. Being a brilliant 
man intellectually, he was alarmed by these 
phenomena. He began to fear that alchohol 
was destroying the delicate tissues of his 
brain. 

Thus it was that Mr. Jones determined to 
cpiit drinking “ hardware ” on the first of the 
year. He had a very jolly time the night 
before New Year’s. By twelve o’clock he 
was the liveliest spirit at his club, and his 
friends remarked that it would be a shame 
for Jones to “ swear oft.” He was “ a glori- 
ous fellow in his cups.” Deaf to flattery, 
however, our hero refused to touch another 
drop when the last stroke of midnight had 
ushered in the new year. He returned to his 
bachelor’s apartments in an exalted frame of 
mind. 

A new and better life was before him. In 
a few days his barber Avould find it unnev 
cessary to put powder on his nose, and per. 
haps the face of his wet-nurse would again 
issue from aome neglected closet of his bruin, 


A PUGILISTIC ENCOUNTER. 


221 


Cherislimg such happy thoughts he sunk 
into a profound slumber. 

When he awoke in the morning Jones felt 
thirsty. He swallowed a glassful of ice 
water but it did not relieve his desire. His 
hands shook slightly and a chilly sensation 
affected his limbs as he drew on his clothes. 
The awful conviction stole over him that the 
only thing on earth that he really longed for 
was a cocktail. He turned pale at the 
thoimht. After over-indulgence at Iiis club 
he had always found that a Manhattan ” re- 
stored the equilibrium of his nervous system. 
This morning he realized that his “ jag ” of 
the night before had been of unusually large 
proportions. 

He had never, in the course of a life of 
two-score years, been called upon to pit the 
force of will against the force of habit. 
Time had been called, however, and the first 
round was now under way. Habit got in 
the first blow and stunned Will for a mo- 
ment. Jones walked toward the cabinet 
ooiitaining the ingredients for the desired 


222 A PUGILISTIC ENCOUNTER. 

cocktail. Will countered Habit, however, 
and Jones paused. The set-to then became 
lively. Habit forced the fighting and Jones 
unlocked the cabinet. Will, driven to the 
ropes, retnrned the blow, and Jones turned 
the key in the lock. He slowly walked 
toward a chair and seated himself therein. 
The first ronnd was at an end and Will had 
scored first blood. 

Habit was by no means downed, however. 
When the fight began again Wdll was knocked 
senseless and Jones arose from his chair, 
rapidly crossed the room, and again unlocked 
the private bar. The row of bottles before 
him seemed to send up a roar of applause for 
Habit. Roused by the sound, W^ill jumped 
forward and struck Habit a rather inetfective 
blow, and Jones slowly reclosed the door of 
the .cabinet but did not lock it. Thus ended 
the second round, with the betting slightly 
in favor of Habit. 

Jones stood still for a while, looking vacant- 
ly out of the window, The excitement of the 


A PUGILTSTIO ENCOUNTER. 


223 


combat bad stunned him for a moment. Then 
tbe third round began. Habit got in some 
very pretty body blows, and Jones took from 
tlie cabinet a glass and several bottles. Hab- 
it followed up this advantage and broke 
Will’s collar-bone. Jones began to mix bis 
cocktail. Tbe third round ended with Habit 
somewhat winded, but smiling triumphantly. 
Will was suffering much pain but still had a 
plucky look on his face. 

When the fourth round began, a sweet- 
smelling cocktail trembled in our hero’s hand. 
Habit was off his guard for a moment and 
Will made a final rally, striking a strong blow 
in spite of his broken clavicle. Jones set the 
cocktail down and stood gazing at it longing- 
ly. Then Habit got in some tremendous 
work, and Jones took a sip of his concoction. 
It was delicious. Thus ended the fourth 
round, with Will paralyzed and Habit in the 
ascendant. 

The fight was not over, however. Jones 
paused in dismay and replaced the cocktail 


224 


A PUGILISTIC ENCOUJ^TER. 


on tlie table. He was astonished at Habit’s 
prowess. He had heard of that pugilist’s skill, 
but had never witnessed it before. 

When the fifth round began, Will did some 
very clever work and held Habit off foa* a 
time, but finally the latter got in a telling 
stroke and Jones swallowed half the cocktail. 
Will was enraged and made a last desperate 
effort to snatch victory from defeat. He Avas 
partially successful. Jones poured the re- 
mainder of the decoction into a cuspidor. 

Tlie fight was at an end. As referee, Jones 
declared it a draw. Ho you thiidv it was ? 


A WONDERFUL DISCOV- 
ERY. 


HE conscience, that still smallVoice, has 



always been of more interest to meta- 
physicians than to surgeons. Its existence 
was recognized by tlie earliest philosophers, 
but even the most advanced materialists of 
modern times have not attempted to locate 
its habitation in the human organism. That 
it is a part of man’s make-up has, in fact, 
been a stumbling-block to the iconoclastic 
scientists of our day. Between materialism 
and accej)ted truth the conscience stood alone 
as a barrier. 

Now, however, this obstacle has been re- 
moved and the materialist stands, for the 
moment, triumpliank He has discovered 
that the conscience, like the memory, is sim- 


226 


A WONDERFUL DISCOVERY. 


ply a combination of tissues. No greater vic- 
tory was ever won by tlie surgeon’s knife. 
Tlie way of it was this : 

A noted manipulator of the scalpel began 
years ago to make a close study of the vermi- 
form appendage, that seemingly useless por- 
tion of our anatomy kno^^al as the blind intes- 
tine.” Here was a sac that seemed ordained 
by nature for nothing but destruction. If, in 
the course of the digestive process, a seed or 
other hard substance left the beaten track 
and dropped into the blind intestine,” the 
victim of such a mishap was doomed to death. 
Neither medicine nor surgery could save him. 
Science asserted that this fatal sac was ^vholly 
useless and simply a menace to human life. 
Our hero,” a surgeon whose name is woild- 
renowned, determined to solve tliis ancient 
mystery. He devoted years to the task, and 
finally invented a method whereby the un- 
lucky wight who had dared the infiammatory 
wrath of the blind intestine might be saved. 
His process consisted in the skillful manipu- 
lation of the knife and the excision of the of- 


A WOiYDmilf'U'L DISCOVERT. 


227 


fending sac. Many an unhappy sufferer 
owes Ills life to this brilliant triumph of sur- 
gical ingenuity. 

After a time, the surgeon who had achieved 
this great victory became impressed by a cer- 
tain suggestive fact. He had .made a practice 
of following his patients in their respective 
careers after they had recovered from the 
effects of his nimble knife. To liis siu‘pi‘ise 
he found that the removal of the vermiform 
appendage had a marked influence upon tlie 
moral nature of the man who had undergone 
the operation. After repeated experiments 
he came to the conclusion that the seat of the 
conscience lay in the blind sac. 

Such a startling deduction was, of course, 
not to be accepted without convincing proof. 
Our surgeon, therefore, confided his theory 
to several colleagues, and together they made 
a close study of the phenomena presented. 
One of their first steps was to cut open the 
body of a murderer, a man who had displayed 
in his life and death a remarkable lack of 
conscience. To their astonishment they found 


228 


A WONDERFUL DISCOVFRY. 


tliat the intestines were wholly devoid of a 
vermiform appendage. 

Of course, they reasoned, this may have 
been a coincidence. Our surgeon smiled, 
and assured them that his theory was correct. 
Some weeks later the committee cut open 
the body of a man who had lost his life 
through an utter indifference to the distinc- 
tions between right and wrong. Again the 
surgeons failed to find the blind sac. 

There was enough in all this to arouse the 
curiosity of those ^v^ho had taken part in 
the autopsies. One of them, a practitioner 
who was noted for his conscientiousness, 
agreed to have his vermiform appendage re- 
moved, in order to prove conclusively the 
truth or falsity of the proposition under dis- 
cussion. He endured the operation with 
heroic calmness, and made a quick recovery. 
A few weeks later he murdered his mother- 
in-law in cold blood. 

There is no longer a shadow of doubt that 
the seat of the conscience is in the vermiform 
appendage. 


OUT OF THE MOUTH OF 
BABES. 


‘TDAPA, we’re doin’ to have a bid turkey 
pretty soon.” 

Ned Barker looked down into tlie smiling 
eyes of his little girl, brushed the curls away 
from her forehead, and kissed the red lips, 
held so temptingly near to his own. 

“ Who told you all that ? ” he asked. “ I 
haven’t seen any turkey about the house for 
a long time.” 

^^Dat doesn’t make any dif-dif-difference,” 
she faltered poutingly. Like all children 
who have lived almost entirely with grown 
people, she w^as fond of using long words, 
and rushed on them often with an impetu- 
osity which tlirew lier tongue into a serious 
state of uncontrol. 

Mamma knows more than you do any 

229 


230 


OUT OF THE MOVTii OF BABF8. 


way ” ; and slie slipped off her father’s lap in 
the evident conviction that she had ended the 
discussion with a crushing argument. At 
this moment the mother, possessed of such re- 
markable wisdom in the mind of the child, 
entered the room. Her bright, handsome face 
indicated that she was worthy of the little 
girl’s admiration. 

“Daisy tells me,” said Barker to his wife, 
“ that we are on the verge of eating a turkey. 
AVhat do you suppose she means ? ” 

Mrs. Barker laughed and patted her daugh- 
ter on the cheek. “Daisy and I know all 
about it,” she answered. “But we have de- 
cided not to tell. But, seriously, Ned, I want 
to say something to you about Thanksgiving. 
Don’t you think it would be a good plan to 
ask Kate and her husband to dinner ? They 
will, of course, have a number of ^invites’ a 
great deal ^ sweller’ than ours, but I think they 
would rather dine here than anywhere else.” 

“ Oh, yes, papa, let’s have Aunt Taty. She 
likes turkey awful.” 

Ned Barker looked annoyed. He was 


OUT OF THE MOUTH OF BABES. 


231 


very fond of his wife’s sister, and liked her 
husband, but they were wealthy people, given 
up to the luxuries of social life, and used to 
dinners much more elaborate than any the un- 
pretentious Barkers ever indulged in. Just 
at that time Ned Barker was in that unsatis- 
factory financial shape which is commonly 
designated by the expressive word, “short.” 
He knew that a dinner appropriate to the 
guests his wife proposed would more than 
demoralize a twenty-dollar bill, and the rapid 
approach of rent day warned him that he 
who lives in a fiat must pay the owner. It 
is very hard to have to fight one’s inclinations 
toward hospitality for the sake of a- few 
paltry dollars. But if the love of money is 
the root of all evil, the lack of gold is the 
cause of much apparent hard-heartedness. 

“ My dear little woman,” said Barker, ris- 
ing and putting his arm about Ids wife. “ I 
should like very much to have Kate with us, 
but don’t you think we had better dine 

quietly, and on Christmas day we’ll- ” 

Whether his wife understood his motive or 


232 


OUT OF THE MOUTH OF BABES. 


not, slie interrupted him Avitli a few quiet 
words of acquiescence, and the matter was 
dropped. But little Daisy did not forget. 

Come, hiss me good-by,” said Barker to 
her, as he put on his hat and coat to go to 
business. 

“I want Aunt Tate to eat turkey with 
me,” cried the persistent child. You is not 
gen-gen-gingerous.” This was too much for 
Bai’ker, and he laughed outright. Catching 
the little girl in his arms, he kissed her on 
botli cheeks and left her abruptly. 

He had a happy little home, this bright- 
faced young man, but as he hurried along 
toward the elevated station his heart ^vas far 
from light. In this materialistic age money 
lias a good deal to do with individual liappi- 
ness. It is a favorite assertion of senti- 
mental moralists that wealth does not bring 
contentment. Tliis is true, as far as it goes, 
but the implication that only the poor are 
happy is an absurdity these same romantic 
philosophers frequently propound. 

Ned Barker was neither rich nor jioor^ but 


OUT OF THE MOUTH OF BABES. 


233 


Lis slender salary was far from satisfying tLe 
demands of a ratLer extravagant nature. 
He labored under a great disadvantage from 
tlie fact tLat Le Lad been brought up in 
luxury, and Lad Lad in Lis youth dangerous 
promises which are summed up in the one 
word ‘^expectations.” He Lad been the 
ward of a most indulgent but self-willed 
uncle, whose vast fortune young Barker 
’would Lave inherited some day Lad Le not 
possessed an obstinacy equal to Lis guard- 
ian’s. TLe young man Lad married for love, 
in opposition to Lis uncle’s express desires. 
TLe old gentleman Lad never forgiven the 
youth for Lis independence, and since the 
marriage there Lad been no intercourse 
between them. Barker Lad never regretted 
the choice Le Lad made, but once in a while 
the stern realities of life, as expressed in 
unreceipted bills, forced themselves upon him 
with a bitter energy. This morning Le could 
not but feel depressed at Lis inability to do 
as Lis wife and child Lad requested. 

^‘]BaL,” he said to himself, ‘'to thipk that 


234 


OUT OF THE MOUTH OF BABES, 


the lack of a small piece of paper bearing 
the government stamp should change the 
whole aspect of life. That dear little girl 
wants her Aunt Kate to dine with us, and 
because I can’t give Aunt Kate champagne 
Daisy thinks I am not gingerous.” And lie 
smiled at his daughter’s unique expression. 

Meanwhile Daisy and her mother had 
started out to do some shopping. A woman 
is generally in a chronic state of shopping if 
she lives in a large city. A noted French- 
man said there was one thing we could not 
resist, and that was “ temptation.” There is 
one thing a woman cannot resist, and that is 
a bargain. Let a woman know tliat she can 
purchase anything at a desirable price and 
she will surely buy it, whether she needs it 
or not. And the worst feature of it all lies 
in the fact that she generally has the bill 
sent to her husband. Mrs. Barker was not 
an extravagant woman, but, like all her sex, 
she did enjoy frequent visits to the stores, 
and even little Daisy was beginning to de- 
velop that hereditary trait. 


OUT OF THE MOUTH OF BABES. 


235 


As Mrs. Barker stood at a counter in one 
of tlie large uptown bazaars, Daisy gradually 
wandered away from her and lost herself in 
the crowd. No one noticed the bright-eyed 
little creature, and she walked along at her 
own sweet will. The brilliant colors of the 
wares displayed on the counters amused her 
for a while, but pretty soon, with the fickle- 
ness of her sex, she tuimed her attention to a 
woolly little poodle just in front of her, 
which strutted along in all the glory of a 
blue ribbon and a sno^wwhite coat. There 
is no creature in the great metroj^olis which 
fares better than a pet poodle. To be the 
favorite dog of a wealthy woman is to live in 
luxury of the most pronounced type. Daisy 
liked little dogs, and wanted to pat the white 
wool of the poodle just beyond her. But 
her two little legs could not overtake the 
object of her activity. The dog trotted on 
by its mistress and passed through the great 
door into the street. Daisy followed. The 
man at the entrance noticed the little girl go 
out, but tliought that in this case, as in 


236 


OUT OF THE MOUTH OF BABES. 


others, the lady in front' took more care of 
her poodle than of her child. Down the 
street went the careless baby. Pretty soon 
Daisy lost sight of her ignis fatwits. The 
dog and its mistress had disappeared. 

I’d better do and find mamma,” said the 
little girl to herself ; and she turned aronnd 
to retrace her steps. A large entrance at one 
side of the street attracted her attention, aial, 
thinking it was the door of the store she had 
just left, she walked boldly in. It didn’t 
seem to her to be the right place, and she 
looked about her in a dazed way. Above 
what seemed to be glass ca&es she could see 
the toj^s of men’s heads, just shoAving over 
the woodwork. Do^m at the end of the room 
was an open door, and Daisy decided to go 
there and ask some one where her mamma 
was. She was beginning to be frightened, 
but had not lost all her courage. She boldly 
entered the little room and found there an 
old gentleman in S2:>ectacles, who looked over 
the top of his morning paper in astonishment 
at the interruption. 


OUT OF THE MOUTH OF BABES. 


237 


“ You’s a funny looking old man/’ said 
Daisy, witli more emphasis than politeness. 

“ Well, little girl, what do you want here ? ” 
asked the old gentleman, in much the same 
tone that Pooh Bali, in the Mikado, says: 
“ How de do, little girls ; how de do ? ” 

I want to see the animals,” said Daisy, 
forgetting in her curiosity all about her 
mother. She had taken the glass counters 
and barred windows of the bank for an 
improved style of menagerie. The dignified 
president laid down his newspaper, arose 
from his chair, and looked into the reception 
room. He supposed that some mother had 
come to the bank on business and had care- 
lessly allowed the little girl to ^vaiider away 
from her. But the bank was absolutely 
empty outside the railings. 

I want to see the animals,” said Daisy 
again, with much of her father’s obstinacy. 

My dear little girl,” said the old gentle- 
man, looking puzzled, where is your 
mamma ? ” 

Daisy instantly came to her senses. 


238 


OUT OF THE MOUTH OF BABES, 


Mamma’s in the store,” she said short!}-. 

What store ? ” asked tlie president. 

The store where tlie little dod was,” re- 
adied Daisy irrelevantly. 

The old gentleman looked at her sharply 
over his spectacles, and then the severe lines' 
of his face relaxed, and lie could not -Init 
smile on the bright little countenance turned 
up to his. 

Calling one of the clerks, he asked if lie 
knew anything about the child’s entrance. 
No one in the bank could account for it. 
The president was unusually moved. He 
would have stood the loss of half his fortune 
without showing the least emotion, but there 
was something about the little girl that 
affected him strangely. He pondered for a 
few moments, while the tears came into 
Daisy’s eyes. She had begun to lose her 
courage somewhat, and she was anxious to 
find her mamma. She knew that she had 
done wrong, and the thought that her mother 
must by this time be worried about her began 
to trouble her sorely. want to go to 


OUT TEE MOVTH OF BABBS. 


239 


mamma,” slie vsobbed. Meanwhile the presi- 
dent had come to a curious decision. ITe 
might liave intrusted the little wanderer to 
a clerk and have resumed his paper with 
serenity. But he was interested in Daisy 
without knowing why, and he determined 
to take her himself to her mother. “Wait a 
moment,” he said to her kindly, “ and you 
shall go to mamma with me.” Daisy dried 
her eyes and felt relieved. She did not realize 
that it was a remarkable triumph thus to lure 
the president of a great bank from his morn- 
ing’s duties, but she was glad that the old 
gentleman was going with her. She began 
to be sorry for calling him a “ funny looking 
old man,” and tried to smooth matters over 
somewhat by taking his hand, and saying, 
“You’re a nice old* man, any way.” Find me 
the woman, whether child or grandam, who 
is not by nature a coquette, and I’ll tell you 
what grows on the other side of the moon. 

Puttinir on his hat and coat the eccentric 
old man took the little girl’s hand, and the 
strangely assorted couple passed through the 


240 OUT OF TIIF MOUTH OF BABES. 

outer room toward tlie door. The cashier 
smiled to himself, the receiving teller 
whispered to a clerk, and the whole establish- 
ment paused for a moment to gossip about an 
event unprecedented in the history of the 
bank. The president was considered by 
those beneath him a haughty and unbending 
person. That he should so far depart from 
his accustomed habits as to wander forth with 
a stray child was most astonishing to those 
acquainted with his reserved and unsym- 
pathetic manners. 

While all this was taking place Mrs. Bar- 
ker had been making a most active search for 
Daisy. She had missed her soon after the 
wanderer had left the store, and had asked 
nearly every one in the establishment if they 
had seen the child. Up and down the street 
she walked hurriedly, looking here and there, 
questioning policemen and endeavoring all the 
time to keep as calm as possible. The fear 
that her daughter had been kidnaped was 
coming on her, and her face grew pale as her 
fruitless search continued. She liad left her 


OUT OF THE MOUTH OF BABES. 


241 


address at the store that they might send 
Daisy home if she should by any chance re* 
turn. But what had been her first fear 
rapidly reached conviction, and she felt sure 
that the child had been stolen. She was 
a cool, courageous woman, but the awful 
thought that her little daub’ll ter mi^ht now 
be in hands unkind and treacherous filled her 
with dismay. 

She hurried home as rapidly as possible. 
Her husband must know at once of Daisy’s 
disappearance. At a crisis like that which 
now confronted Mrs. Barker, a woman feels 
all the significance of her own weakness. 
She naturally turns to a man for guidance. 
Mrs. Barker felt an intense relief when she 
heard her husband’s voice answering her 
through the telephone. It was not a pleasant 
story she had to tell, but she related hur- 
riedly the main features thereof in as quiet 
and restrained a manner as possible. Ned 
Barker was a man who always reached a de- 
cision in a hurry, but his judgment was sel- 
dom at fault. I will go to the store and 


242 


OUT OF TUB MOtJTH OF BABES. 


from til ere to the police station. After that 
I will come home at once,” he called to his 
wife. Don’t worry about her ; she will turn 
up all right.” 

In spite of his cheerful words, however, 
his voice had an unwonted unsteadiness 
about it which was not wholly the telephone’s 
fault. Mrs. Barker did worry. How could 
she help it ? Her own unwarranted absorption 
in a petty bargain had caused her a loss which, 
if permanent, she felt would drive her crazy. 

And where were little Daisy and her con- 
quest meanwhile ? On leaving the bank the 
^iresident had easily led the little girl to show 
him in what store she had left her mother. 
It was all plain sailing after that. 

Mrs. Barker, as before said, had left her 
address with the clerks, and Daisy’s dignified 
protector had no difficulty in learning where 
to take his little charge. “We live in a 
flat,” said Daisy, as she trotted along at the 
great man’s side. “We’s goin’ to have a 
turkey on Thanks — Thanks-giving day. We 
isn’t doin’ to have Aunt Tate, but I know 


OUT OU THE MOUTH OE BABES. 


US 


•papa would like to have you come.” Tlie 
old gentlemau looked down tliouglitfully at 
tlie baby by his side. 

^^Wliat is your papa’s first name?” he 
asked, somewhat sternly. He had been 
struck by the name of Barker given him at 
the store, and something in the little girl’s 
face seemed familiar. 

^‘Papa hasn’t any name, but just papa,” 
said Daisy emphatically. Mamma calls 
him Ned, but dat’s only just for fun.” 

His suspicions were confirmed by the 
child’s answer. He was doing a kindness to 
a man who for years he had resolved to efface 
from his memory. But his lonely old heart 
was touched, and he resolved to see the ad- 
venture to its end. His life had been very 
dreary since he had cast Ned Barker from 
him, and he felt a growing curiosity to see the 
woman who had come between him and his 
nephew. There was a pleasing excitement 
about the whole affair which gave him an in- 
terest in life wdiich he had not hoped ever to 
feel again. 

O 


244 


OtiT OF THE MOUTH OF TABES, 


As he entered the elevator of the great 
apartment house, the little girl climbed into 
his lap and put up her face for a kiss. 
^‘You’s a nice old man, any way,” she re- 
peated, patting him on his withered cheek. 
As he touched the bell at Ned Barker’s door 
he heard the sound of sobs within. The 
door was opened instantly, and Daisy was in 
her mother’s arms. The little girl had for- 
gotten long ago that she had done wrong, 
but now her conscience began to prick again 
at sight of her mother’s tears. ^‘But, mam- 
ma,” she said, “it was such a pretty little 
dod, and I lost him, and then I wanted to see 
the an — an — animals, and I didn’t, but I saw 

a nice old man, and — and — and ” 

Daisy’s elo(pience came to a most unsatis- 
factory end. Her reference to her protector 
roused her mother to a sense of propriety. 
“ You must excuse me, sir, for delaying my 
welcome,” she said smiling, “ but I have been 
so worried that I fear I am not cpiite myself.” 
And she held out to him her pretty white 
hand. In spite of the poets, women seldom 


OUT OF TBE MOUTH OF BABES. 245 

look well when bathed in tears/’ as the ex- 
pression goes, but Mrs. Barker’s beauty ap- 
pealed to the old gentleman with a force he 
could not resist. He followed her into the 
parlor, and sat down in a chair she placed 
for him. 

As they sat there conversing about the 
details of Daisy’s escapade, a quick step in 
the hallway preceded the entrance of T^ed 
Barker. He had learned at the store that his 
little girl had been taken home, and his face 
was wreathed with smiles as he caught Daisy 
in his arms and kissed her on both cheeks. 

‘‘‘ See dat nice old man,” exclaimed Daisy, 
pointing to her rescuer. “He brought me 
home to mamma.” Ned Barker turned 
quickly and beheld his uncle. It was a mo- 
ment of intense emotion for both of them, 
but the sweet presence of the little child 
destroyed forever the coldness that had 
grown between them, and hand in hand they 
renewed the ties that had been severed. 
“The little girl looked so like yon, Ned,” snid 
the uncle at last, “ that I seemed to be drawn 


246 


OUT OF THE MOUTH OF BABES, 


to lier by the force of former years. And 
you have completed the conquest,” he said, 
turning to Mrs. Barker. 

Thus it was that the Barkers had Aunt 
Kate and her husband to eat turkey Avith 
them, and the feast was dignified by the portly 
presence of a bank president. And if you 
ask Ned Barker now why he is not as short” 
as he used to be, he will tell you that it is all 
owing to the fact that Daisy once got lost. 


A STBANGE CONFESSOR. 


I. 


GREAT mystery surrounded tlie sudden 



death of Alexander Dale. Certain met- 
ropolitan newspapers claimed that he had 
committed suicide, while others contended that 
a murder had been perpetrated. The detec- 
tives were all at sea in the matter and refused 
to express an opinion. 

So far as the public knew, the facts of the 
case were these : Alexander Dale, president 
of the AVesternLand Improvement Company, 
with offices in the Hollis Building, New 
York City, had been for years a prominent 
and respectable business man of the metrop- 
olis. He had been a member of several 
exclusive clubs, and had kept bachelor’s hall 
in handsome style. One morning he was 
found dead in bed, a dagger through his 


248 


A STRANGE CONFESSOR, 


heart. The weapon was so situated that two 
theories regarding his demise Avere tenable. 
Either his own hand or that of a murderer 
liad struck tlie fatal blow. 

The weakness of the position held by 
those Avho considered him a suicide lay in 
the fact that no motive for self-destruction 
seemed to exist. His financial affairs ap- 
peared to be in a flourishing condition, and 
no complications Avith the gentler sex Avere 
knoAvn to cloud his record. His felloAV- club- 
men festihed unanimously that he had been 
a consistent woman-hater; that he Avas not 
pi'one to melancholia, and that, on the night 
preceding his death, he had left their com- 
pany in unusually high spirits. 

On the otlier liand, there was not the 
slightest clue to a murderer. His apartments 
Avere on the second floor of a large building 
on Fifth AA^enue, and he AA^as in the habit of 
remaining out so late at night that his in- 
comings AA^ere never noted by the. janitor, 
AA^ho usually retired long before Dale left his 
club. 


A jSmAJVGB CONFESSOR. 


249 


The mystery caused much gossip and dis- 
cussion for a few days, and was then practi- 
cally forgotten. Some new sensation had 
turned the attention of the metropolis away 
from the Dale case. 

II. 

Tiieee was only one man in the world 
who knew how Alexander Dale died ; that 
was the murderer. Eugene Scranton, secre- 
tary and treasurer of the Western Land 
Improvement Company, had killed the presi- 
dent. Why ? Because Dale and Scranton 
were scoundrels of a strictly modern type. 
They both kneAV that the W. L. I. C. was a 
gigantic fraud. No one else did. So Scran- 
ton murdered Dale in order that he might 
alone reap the profits of a great SAvindle and 
retain in his own keeping a dangerous secret. 
Greed and fear were the monsters that urged 
him to commit the worst of all crimes. 

III. 

Eugexe Scrantox^ sat at his breakfast 
table, sipping his coffee and glancing over 


250 


A STEAJVGE CONFESSOR. 


tlie morning newspapers. He was a tall, 
spare man, about forty years of age. His 
gray liair and black mustaclie formed a com- 
bination pleasing to tlie eye. To tlie close 
observer, however, there was something about 
the man’s face that chilled the heart and 
awakened suspicion. Was it in the mouth 
or in the eyes that this father of distrust 
was born ? It was hard to tell. Neverthe- 
less, his was a bad face, though a handsome 
one. 

Alexander Dale had been dead a month. 
Eugene Scranton smiled as he realized that 
the newspapers made no reference to the 
mystery that had caused such a furor, some 
weeks before. He laid down the Morning 
Was]) and applied himself with considerable 
enthusiasm to an omelette spiced with chopped 
ham. He had been made president of the 
Western Land Improvement Company and 
had placed the affairs of that organization in 
such shape that he would reap moat of the 
profits and stand in no peril from any man’s 
knowledge that he was a liigli-toned “ crook,” 


A STRANGE CONFESSOR. 


251 


Tlie study of this man’s life had been to 
make selfishness a science. He perceived 
that the modern world j)ays adulation to him 
who holds the golden keys of power. Cold, 
remorseless as an iceberg, he had aimed at the 
target of wealth. He had found that be- 
tween him and the bull’s-eye of his ambition 
stood the form of Alexander Dale. A well- 
directed dagger had removed this obstacle — 
and Eugene Scranton found himself a mil- 
lionaire* 

IV. 

“ Well, what do you want ? ” 

Scranton threw down his newspaper testily 
and turned toward his valet, who had just 
entered the breakfast-room. 

^‘Beg pardon, sir,” said John, but a man 
is outside with a queer-looking machine. He 
says you ordered a funnygraph sent here. I 
don’t know what it is, but he’s very positive, 
sir.” 

Tell him to put it in the drawing-room,” 
commanded the master. “ Place it near the 
piano, do you hear ? ” 


252 


A CONFESSOR. 


“ Yes, sir.” 

The valet left the room, and Eugene 
Scranton reapplied himself to his breakfast, 
his newspaper, and his self-gratulations. 


V. 

It was midnight, and Eugene Scranton lay 
awake, tossing restlessly upon his bed. The 
world was treating him well, but his con- 
science, that most obnoxious organ of the 
human make-up, had become so aggressive 
that sleep had deserted his fevered couch. 

In the silent, dark, mysterious hours of 
night it makes little difference to a man what 
his fellow-creatures may think of him. At 
that solemn time what he thinks of him- 
self is all that is essential. Eugene Scranton 
knew that he was a murderer. In the bustle 
and excitement of the day this self-convictioii 
was not powerful nor poignant. In the silent 
watches of the night, however, it became unr 
bearable. From the shadows of his room 
one face gazed at him— tlie face of Alexander 
Pale ! He arosej dipped a handerchief in ice 


A SmAJVG^ CONFESSOR. 


253 


water, and placed the refreshing cloth against 
the base of the brain. For a few moments 
he appeared to doze. The blood that surged 
upward was cooled for a time, and a simple 
device seemed about to triumph over the in- 
somnia that had driven him well-nigh mad. 

It is not easy, however, to escape the pun- 
ishment that follows sin. Eugene Scranton 
did not fall asleep. The blissful unconscious- 
ness that his crime- tortured nature craved 
wooed him for a while. He was further from 
sleep than before ; and again his staring eyes 
saw in the darkness the face of Alexander 
Dale. 

VI. 

An hour had passed ; an hour of agony to 
Scranton. Twice had he pressed his revolver 
against his throbbing temples. Twice had 
he realized that he dared not rush to a fate 
that frightened Hamlet and made Cato 
pause. A man who commits murder from 
greed seldom commits suicide from choice. 

At last the strain became unbearable, 


254 


A STBA]\rOB CONFESSOR. 


Scranton sprang from his bed and rushed to 
the window. 

O God, I must confess my crime. I must 
confess. I must confess.” 

He threw up the sash. A belated citizen 
was hurrying homeward on the opposite side 
of the street. I’ll call to him and tell him 
the awful secret of my soul,” thought 
Scranton. 

^^Wait!” 

The cry startled the silent street and 
echoed weirdly through the dismal night. 
Alarmed by his voice, Scranton shut the 
window with a crash and rushed into the 
outer room. In the dim light he saw before 
him the outlines of his phonograph. Hyster- 
ically he threw his arms around the machine 
and kissed it. 

“ I’m saved,” he whispered. “ I’ll tell you 
the history of my fall.” 

VII. 

Night after night the fatal cylinder gave 
comfort to Eugene Scranton, If the mur- 


A STRANGE CONFESSOR. 


255 


derer awoke in tke still, dark hours and the 
shadow of his crime crossed his soul, he 
would stealthily leave his bedroom and place 
in effective position the ear-pieces of the 
accusing machine. Then with ghastly satis- 
faction he would listen to the following 
repetition of the tale he had told the 
sympathetic wax : 

killed Alexander Dale. I had hated 
him for years. Together we had concocted 
a scheme whereby we could fleece investors 
who desired to gain a fortune in the twink- 
ling of an eye. It was my brain that 
developed the idea of a Western land im- 
provement company, that would not be 
Western; would own no land; would have 
nothing to do with improvement, and ^vould 
be a company only in name. I needed a 
well-known man to give his influence and 
reputation to the swindle, and I found in 
Dale a colleague who was weak enough to 
follow my guidance, but clever enough to 
retain in his grip a tliorough control over my 
life. After months of temptation I yielded 


256 


A STRANGE CONFESSOR. 


to tlie voice of tlie devil, and determined to 
rid myself of tlie only man in tlie world who 
stood between me and success and safety. I 
killed him cleverly. He had had tlie utmost 
confidence in my loyalty, and when, one 
evening, after dining with him at his rooms, 
he expressed a wish to take me to one of his 
clubs, I pleaded fatigue, asked permission to 
finish my cigar in his drawing-room, and saw 
him sally forth a doomed man. 

‘^The rest was easy. For hours I awaited 
his return. When I heard his footsteps on 
the stairs I concealed myself behind a por- 
tiere. After he had undressed, and had 
fallen into a deep sleep, I plunged a dagger 
into his heart. Oh, it was delicious. I have 
enjoyed all the sensations that tempt the 
wealthy epicure. There is only one that fills 
the soul with perfect ecstasy — that is the 
bliss that pertains to murder.” 

Here the cylinder made an incoherent 
sound and the confession ceased. 


A BTHAJVGB CONFESSOR. 


251 


YIII. 

Eugene Scranton’s valet John was not a 
genius, but he possessed a good deal of 
shrewdness and a fair amount of common- 
sense. From the moment of its arrival he 
had been intensely interested in what he 
called ‘Hhe funnygraph.” When his master 
was away he spent much of his time in tiying 
to make the machine work. At first the 
results were not satisfactory ; but after a 
week of mental effort he solved the problem 
involved, and thereafter enjoyed himself 
greatly. 

Scranton was constantly buying new cylin- 
ders ; some with operatic music, others with 
banjo solos or recitations by famous actors. 
The much-used cylinder containing his confes- 
sion he kept carefully locked in a drawer by 
itself, and placed it on the machine only at 
the dead of night. One night, after quieting 
his conscience by listening to the ghastly 
story of his crime, he failed to lock the com- 
partment reserved for the accusing wax. It 


258 A STEAmJ^ CONFESSOH. 

was a fatal Omission ; murder will 5ut unless 
you always turn tlie key. 


IX. 

The next afternoon, Jolin, the valet, experi- 
enced tlie most frightful sensation of his life. 
He listened, awe-struck, to his master’s voice, 
as it related the story of a great crime. Then, 
like the shrewd man he was, he sat down and 
debated with himself the best method of till- 
ing this weird find to his own advantage. At 
first he was inclined to inform S(iranton that 
he had discovered his secret. John realized 
that his silence was worth a great deal of 
money, and he knew that Scranton could 
aiford to pay well to escape the gallows. 

But the valet was at heart a coward. He 
had long stood in awe of his master ; and, he 
reflected, a man who murders one unfortunate 
who holds his secret would not hesitate to 
sacrifice a second victim. So John abandoned 
the idea of blackmail. 


A STRANGE CONEESSOR. 


250 


X. 

Ix connection with liis phonographic amuse- 
ments, the valet had discovered that hand- 
some prices were paid by a nickel-in-the-slot’’ 
company for novel cylinders. After an hour 
of meditation John decided to take Eugene 
Scranton’s confession to this concern, demand 
a high price for it, and then leave the city at 
once. 

Arriving at the office of the phonographic 
company, he astonished the manager by these 
words : 

You remember the sensational death of 
Alexander Dale some months ago ? Well, the 
man was murdered. This cylinder here .holds 
the confession of tlie man who killed him — 
my master. Now, you will take this cylinder 
to the police and they will arrest the murderer. 
On the instant the city will ring with the 
news. Meanwhile you have reproduced the 
cylinder a thousand times, and your public 
machines contain the most sensational attrac- 
tion ever offered to the victims of the phono- 


260 


A STRANGE CONFESSOR. 


graphic habit. See ? My price is one thou- 
sand dollars. Is it a bargain ? ’’ 

Yes,” said the manager, writing out a 
cheque. 

John, the valet, sailed for Europe that after- 
noon. 

XI. 

Eugei^e ScRANTOJsr has been condemned to 
death. He will die by electricity — ^the agent 
of his confession. 


A WEIRD ENCOUNTER. 


ATUHE lias endowed me with a cheer- 



^ fill disposition, a good digestion, and a 
nervous system not easily disturbed. Nevei- 
theless, as I leaned back in my seat in the 
smoking-car of a late train out of New York 
some weeks ago, I found myself disgusted 
with the world, my stomach out of order, and 
my nerves agitated through over-indulgence 
during the day in tobacco. 

Everything had gone wrong with me since 
I had left my suburban home in the morning. 
I had lost a case in court, a loquacious but 
desirable client had kept me late at the office, 
and I had eaten nothing since breakfast, save 
a chicken sandwich at one o’clock. It was 
9.30, and, as the train roared through the 
tunnel, I could not resist the temptation to 


261 


262 


A WEIRD ENCOUNTER. 


quiet the pangs of hunger by another cigar — ■ 
the tenth I had smoked since breakfast. 

Furthermore, the weather was wretched. 
A cold rain, battered by a sharp, penetrating 
^vind, beat against the windows and promised 
me a dreary walk ^\dien I should set out for 
home from a lonely station up the road. 

'In the dim light of a smoking lamp I 
glanced over an evening newspaper. Death, 
disaster, crime, and misery were recorded in 
the headlines that met my eyes. A weird, 
mysterious epidemic was mowing down its 
victims by the thousands. I shuddered as 
I read the death-record for the day. 

AVas my best friend, Jim MacFarland, still 
alive, I wondered, as I approached the end of 
my journey. He was my next-door neighbor, 
and had been dangerously ill for a Aveek with 
pneumonia. As Jim had been always rather 
reckless in his habits I feared that he could 
not withstand the treacherous inroads of the 
dread disease that had seized him. 

It was in this dismal frame of mind that I 
left the train. I stood upon the platform a 


A WEIRD ENCOUNTER. 263 

moment, trying to raise my umbrella in spite 
of tlie wind. The cold rain beat upon my 
face, and I wondered what evil spirit had ever 
impelled me to leave the metropolis. In vain 
I looked about me for a cab. The storm had 
driven our delicate provincial hackmen to the 
shelter of their homes. 

There was nothing to do but to trudge on- 
ward for a mile, through mud and moisture, 
to^vard the hearth-stone I should have reached 
some hours before. 

I had not gone far when a familiar voice- 
exclaimed ; 

Good evening, old man. Won’t you share 
your umbrella with me ? ” 

I peered into the darkness, and there before 
me was the face of Jim MacFarland, pale, 
thin, shadowy, like a vision from the other 
world. His eyes gleamed with an unnatural 
fire, and the smile upon his lips sent a strange 
thrill through my heart. A soft hat rested 
on the back of his head, and his hair, prema- 
turely gray, hung damp about his ears. His 
beard shelved a fortnight’s growth and added 


264 


A WEIMD ENGOUNTEE. 


to liis unkempt appearance. He was attired 
in a long cape-coat, and liis tliin hands were 
encased in gloves a size too large for them. 

Wliat are you doing here ? ” I asked 
hoarsely, as he slipjjed an arm through mine, 
and I felt a chill go through me that the storm 
could not have caused. 

“ I’m coming in out of the wet — can’t you 
see ? ” he answered with grim humor. 

But I thought you were sick,” I returned. 

They told me you were down with pneu- 
monia.” 

His ghastly face lost its peculiar smile. 

They told you the truth, old man. I 
have been very ill — but I’m all right now.” 

We strode on in silence for a time. The 
wind whistled angrily through the trees, the 
rain pelted us without mercy, and the chill 
that his presence begot still seemed to freeze 
my blood. 

“You should not be out on such a night as 
tliis,” I ventured ut length, “ You will have 
a relapse,” 


A WMlJiB ENCOUNTER. 


265 


A wild, unearthly laugh echoed through 
the night. 

“ A relapse ! ” he cried. No, no ; the 
days of miracles are past.” 

He must have a fever, I thought. His 
words were those of a man sutfering from de- 
lirium. I cast a glance at his face. His 
eyes were strangely bright, but there was no 
flush upon his cheeks. His step was firm, 
though I noticed that his feet made no sound 
as they struck the rain-covered walk. 

Tell me, Jim,” I began earnestly. When 
did you leave your house ? ” 

An expression of bewilderment crossed his 
face. 

I don’t know,” he answered. “ There is 
no time in eternity.” 

He is surely mad, said my mind, and I 
hurried onward at a rapid gait. I must get 
him home at once. It was evident that he 
had escaped the vigilance of his nurse and 
h id wandered forth in the storm aiicl d^rk- 
^ess, not knowing where he went, 


266 


A WEIRD ENCOUNTER. 


Don’t walk so fast,” lie said a moment 
later. “I may not see you soon again. I 
love yon, old man. We have always been 
good friends, and I Avanted to say farewell 
before I went — before I went — I went — well, 
I don’t kno^v just where, but I’ll send you 
word some day.” Then he bent toward me 
until his ghastly face almost touched mine. 

But don’t tell them, old man, that you saw 
me. They won’t believe it. They will say 
that you are mad. Do you understand ? ” 
^Wes,” I answered soothingly, though I 
knew that I had lied to my friend. 

^^You see,” he continued, I am a little 
new to this kind of thing, but I’ll get used to 
it after a time. Do I look queer?” he asketl, 
peering into my face with his burning eyes. 

Not at all,” I answered, anxious to keep 
him quiet. A little pale, perhaps, but 
you’ll soon be your old self again ? ” 

Yes, they say we are apt to be rather 
white at first, but I don’t mind that. How- 
ever, you are mistaken, old man ; I can never 
be my old self again. In fact, I don’t want 


A WEIRD ENCOUNTER. 


9.^1 

to be. When I get accustomed to this, you 
know, I’ll be better off tlian before. You 
follow me ? ” 

Not exactly/’ I was obliged to admit. 

^^But you’ll have to/’ lie added, laughing 
in a blood-curdling way. You’ll all follow 
me in time.” 

He seemed to be growing more flighty 
every moment. The strain on my nerves 
was becoming oppressive, and I rejoiced as I 
saw the lights of my house gleam through 
the driving rain. Just beyond was MacFar- 
land’s home, strangely dark it seemed to me. 
At last I could place my friend in hands that 
would give him every care, though I felt 
that his chance for life was slim. 

I turned to look at him as the lights from 
my house dispersed the darkness that had 
surrounded us. My heart came into my 
throat, my ‘pulse ceased to beat. Jim Mac- 
Farland had disappeared. 

Rushing forward I threw open my front 
door, anxious to obtain help in my search 
for the escaped invalid. 


268 


A WEIRD ENCOUNTER. 


My wife stood in the hallway, awaiting my 
return. Her face was very grave. 

He is dead,” she cried, as she caught my 
hands. “ Poor Jim ! ” 

Who is dead ? ” I asked in bewilder- 
ment. 

“ Jim MacFarland. He died at six o’clock 
to-night.” 


REDEEMED BY LOYE. 


rPlHE spirit of John Ordway stood by the 
grave within which his earthly form 
had lain for a day and a might. It was a 
brilliant morning in May, and the luscious 
odor of the budding verdure gave to the 
hallowed spot a fascination that even the 
solemn tombstones could uot destroy. The 
grass had become a carpet of green velvet. 
The lilacs and dogwood scented the wander- 
ing breeze, and their white and purple 
splendor pleased the eye. The violet peeped 
forth here and there, and, in its modest way, 
added to the beauty that glorified the resting 
place of those who had passed from the 
stormy waters of earthly life to the calm 
haven that awaits the weary soul. 

The spirit of John Ordway, new to the 
realm it had reached, looked about it in 


270 


REDEEMED BY LOVE. 


strange disquietude. Could it be tliat be- 
neatli that mound of upturned sod rested the 
body that had so long pleased the eyes of 
those who gazed upon it ? Could it be that, 
after suffering the pangs of death, he still 
could rejoice in the sweetness of the spring, 
the azure sky, the verdant foliage, the modest 
flowers that flirted coyly in his sight ? It 
seemed so. 

But soon another object broke upon the 
startled gaze of the shadow}^ shape standing 
so close to the n^w-made grave. Upon the 
grassless mound John Oixlway saw a gro- 
tesque figure, an evil, one-eyed sprite, whose 
grinning face looked up at him and filled 
him with dismay. Upon the grave the elfish 
figure danced and waved aloft an empty 
bottle, and, with gestures mockish, recalled 
to the onlooking ghost many a mad revel 
held in his earthly days. Then came another 
weird, disjointed imp, who held in his out- 
stretched hand a pack of cards. Another 
followed, carrying a dice-box and rattling 
mischievously the ivories therein. 


nEDEEMEB Bt LOVE. 2Vl 

And, as time passed by, the mound was 
covered witli these evil sprites, some bearing 
broken oaths, others good resolves stunted 
in their growth, while others came trooping 
forward, shaking their sides with hideous 
laughter, and reaching upward toward the 
shrinking ghost the bleeding hearts of men 
and women he had wronged. 

Suddenly the goblin army fled away and 
by the grave a weeping woman, clad in black, 
stood motionless, and by her side a baby girl 
looked up into her face. 

“ Oh, God, I loved him so ! ” the woman 
cried. 

^‘Please, papa, come back to mamma and 
me,” pleaded the little child. 

Then the spirit of John Ordway heard, as 
though a voice had reached him from afar. 

If such as these have loved thee, thou art 
not wholly bad. Come, unhappy spirit, and 
taste the peace and joy that he who saves 
men’s souls provides.” 


A DEFEATED AMBITION. 


HE man who was known on earth as 



Roger Orton had been dead nearly one 
hundred years. Whenever he thought of 
this he smiled in an amused way. Time 
passes so quickly in the spirit land ! He 
had roamed about the universe for almost a 
century, exploring new worlds, and rejoicing 
in the freedom that is begotten when the 
fleshly body is laid aside, as the butterfly 
abandons the decaying chrysalis. 

Roger Orton he still called himself, and 
once in a while, in his flights through space, he 
would meet some fellow-spirit who, in the 
old days on earth, he had known and loved. 
He remembered vividly a poem he had once 
admired that in his later knowledge seemed 
absurd. It ran thus : 


272 


A DEFEATED AMBITIOK. 


273 


Somewhere in desolate, wind- swept space, 

In twilight land, in no-man’s land. 

Two hurrying shapes met face to face, 

And bade each other stand. 

“And who are you?” cried one, agape, 
Shuddering in the gloaming light. 

“I know not,” said the second shape. 

“ I only died last night.” 

“ How little they realize on earth,” Eoger 
Orton used to remark, as he quoted the poem 
to some sympathetic spirit, that death is 
only a transition, and that our individuality 
remains to us for all time. This nameless 
ghost of Aldrich — I think that was the 
poet’s name — had been dead for a few hours, 
and did not remember who he was. You 
and I can understand the nonsense of all 
this. Come, let’s take a look at Mars. They 
were having a strike on the canals there 
when I was up there last. I am rather 
anxious to see what the situation is now.” 

The two congenial spirits hailed a passing 
cloud, and, reclining luxuriously on the 
fleecy couches, sailed upward toward the 
planet named above. 


274 A DEFEATED AMBITIOI^. 

Roger Ol'ton was one of the most popular 
spirits in the realm of space. He Avas 
always ready to go to the ends of the uni- 
verse, and his conviction that the final 
collapse of all creation could liaA^e no evil 
effect upon the myriads of beings ^vho had 
abandoned their bodily form Avas a tonic to 
more pessimistic ghosts, who feared that some 
day the attraction of gravitation Avould be- 
come repulsion and that the spirit AAmrld 
Avould suffer as seA^erely as the material. 

After his visit to Mars, Roger Orton be- 
came thoughtful. I Avonder,” he remarked 
to his companion, a quiet, congenial spirit 
who had once occupied the form of a beauti- 
ful Avoman, on one of the luxurious luminaries 
in the belt of Orion ; I Avonder if I am still 
remembered on that dismal planet they call 
the Earth. I recollect that in former times 
I AA^as very ambitious. I Avas clever and in- 
dustrious, and Avas desirous of placing my 
name high on what those funny mortals call 
the scroll of fame. Thus it Avas that, while 


A DEFEATED AMBITION. 275 

I plied my pen on a newspaper and produced 
epliemeral stuff tliat I despised, I devoted 
my leisure hours to fiction and poetry. I 
wrote novels and poems that made a great 
sensation at the time. I suppose that, al- 
though a century has passed, I still have a 
famous name among the writers of my gener- 
ation. If you don’t mind we’ll return to 
Earth for a few hours, and see how my record 
stands.'’ 

As you wish, my afiinity,” whispered the 
gentle spirit at his side. 

Down, down they went, and after a time 
struck our planet just as the city of New 
York hove into si2fht. Assuming: for a while 
an earthly shape, our hero and his companion 
walked the streets that only one of them had 
ever known. Buying an evening newspaper 
with a coin made from the remains of a small 
asteroid, Koger Orton read the following 
item : 

Algernon Augustus Orton of this city 
died yesterday. He was one of the lineal 


S're A DEFEATED AMBITION. 

descendants of Eoger Orton, who, a century 
ago, was the funny man on a local news- 
paper.” 

^^Come,” said Roger to his companion, 
^Oet’s go back to the realm where justice 
prevails.” 

A cloud seemed to cross the sky for a mo- 
ment, and a sigh, as though a mighty wind 
was passing somewhere through boundless 
space, startled the men of earth. 


THE END. 



* 
















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